


Veni Vidi Vici

by Insomnia_Productions



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bickering, Canon Divergence, Draco does origami because of That Scene in poa I Will FiGHT, Draco doesn't know how to muggle, Draco is a little shit, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Feat. Pocahontas, Hogwarts Fifth Year, Humor, M/M, Quest, Road Trips, Runaway Draco, Scamming pawn shop owners, Shenaniganry Abound, Slow Burn, So much bickering, Sort Of, but so is harry so it's okay, draco sings in french I Will Fight, every chapter goes with a song, magical beasts galore, read one fic get a playlist free, temporary runaway harry, this is a wild ride folks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-07-01 02:48:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 26,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15765054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Insomnia_Productions/pseuds/Insomnia_Productions
Summary: “That’s mad, Malfoy. You’re mad.”“Are you saying youaren’t?”±±If you'd told Harry Potter a month ago that he'd be spending the summer after his fourth year on an insane Quest through the Muggle UK, he'd have thought you were mad. And if you'd told him he'd be on this Quest with a runaway Draco Malfoy, he'd have had you checked into St Mungo's posthaste.But things never seem to go as expected in Harry's life... and maybe that's not such a bad thing.





	1. Prologue: Airplanes

There was light growing on the horizon, hinting at an end to the infinite black of the sky. 

 

Draco Malfoy sat with his chin propped against his palm, gazing out over the Manor grounds. Hours had passed since Mother had whisked him away from the World Cup. He had been furious, then, to be removed from the action. Now, with dawn approaching and Father nowhere in sight, the excitement had begun to fade.

 

He wondered, idly, if Potter and his posse had made it out. 

 

“Lucius!”

 

Draco turned from the window at the cry. Father stood in the doorway, one hand reaching to pull the hood away from his face. As he stepped into the light, Draco saw the faintest smile on his lips. 

 

“Everything is coming together,” he said. 

 

Mother was fussing: “So late, Lucius! We were concerned!”

 

Father seemed not to hear her. He walked towards Draco, who stood quickly, hands moving almost unconsciously to straighten his shirt. 

 

“Everything is coming together,” Father repeated, and his voice was the whisper of a fevered man. He lifted a hand and cupped Draco’s cheek, his smile growing. It must have been years since Draco had received such an expression from Father. He wanted to return the smile, but could not. 

 

Father shifted, and Draco saw it. A burst of red, dark and wet, on the white sleeve beneath Father’s cloak. Draco felt a deep cold settle over his bones. He could not breathe. It wasn’t until Father swept out of the room that he allowed himself to exhale, and he realized that he was frightened. Draco had always been a little afraid of his father, but this—this was different, in some fundamental, irreversible way. He walked stiffly to his bedroom, some unknown instinct keeping his footsteps silent against the marble floors. 

 

Unable to sleep, he stared out the window, to the lands outside the Manor gates, where the sun glowed white just under the hills. He knew, somewhere deep inside, that nothing would be the same once that sun rose. 

 

In his chest, a hollow was growing. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's song is Airplanes by B.O.B
> 
>  
> 
> whooooo first Harry Potter fic what up
> 
> It's been 10 years since I first read HP, so I just had to do something to commemorate. Naturally, after rereading the series, my first thought was drarry
> 
>  
> 
> This prologue is terribly short, but the actual chapters are much longer, I promise. I've finished all of the research and planning (for once), and I've written a few chapters already, so I should be able to maintain a weekly uploading schedule. I have 14 chapters planned, all in all.
> 
> That's about all I've got to say... I'm enjoying writing this (I love writing Harry and Draco, they're both just brilliant) and I hope you enjoy reading it just as much!
> 
> Please do comment if you like it; your approval is my life sustenance :)


	2. Crazy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Godric's left sock, that's Draco Malfoy!

Harry Potter was in a rage. 

 

He considered himself a level-headed individual at the best of times (no matter what Ron and Hermione and the rest of Hogwarts said) but today the universe seemed determined to push every one of his buttons. He had barely slept, kept awake and shivering by the cold wind seeping in through the cracks in his window despite the fact that it was  _ meant  _ to be  _ summer _ , only to be roused from his not-quite-sleep by a deafening banging as his uncle summoned him for a grocery run. Apparently, he was not to be trusted at home alone with his aunt’s newly baked pie resting on the kitchen table, a temptress dressed in dough. The groceries had taken ridiculously long, which should have been impossible but for Dudley’s insistence on battling his parents over every sugary food they turned down. Now, as they all trooped back to Privet Drive, Harry lugging the majority of the groceries, he almost wished he hadn’t invited those Euro-Asiatic Pixies into the car’s exhaust pipes. 

 

A few paces ahead, Uncle Vernon was grumbling, as was often the case, about the State Of This Country. Harry had long tuned him out. His thoughts had turned from the universe and wandered back to Hogwarts. It seemed, nowadays, that this was all he thought about—Hogwarts, his friends, Dumbledore, Voldemort. It was difficult not to, when the most dangerous Dark Wizard the world had seen was back from the dead and on the loose in the UK, and Harry, his fated adversary, the  _ only one  _ who’d been there when Cedric had  _ died  _ without so much as—

 

Best to stop that thought. The point was, Voldemort was at large and Harry had heard nothing from anyone about it.  

 

He had heard nothing from anyone,  _ full stop _ . Voldemort was his most pressing concern, but by this point, already several weeks into the summer, Harry would have given an arm just to hear a simple  _ hello  _ from Ron and Hermione. Hell, by this point he’d even appreciate a glimpse of— 

 

“What was I just telling you? What was I saying!” Harry snapped out of his thoughts to see Uncle Vernon wagging a finger towards the ground. He lumbered on after a moment, but his tirade carried loud. “These goddamn riff-raff hoodlums will be the downfall of this nation, Dudley, you mark my words!” 

 

Rolling his eyes (twice, for good measure), Harry hefted the grocery bags and moved to look at the offending hoodlum. He was curled against the wall, a pile of fabric underneath him and a small school satchel by his side. He seemed young, no older than Harry, and his clothes, though clearly old, looked surprisingly clean for a homeless kid. As Harry’s eyes traveled upwards, he saw a flash of white-blond hair under the brown hoodie, and pale skin as the boy turned his head, meeting Harry’s gaze with sharp grey eyes—

 

_ Godric’s left sock, that’s Draco Malfoy! _

 

Malfoy must have recognized him, too, because shock flashed across his face and then he scowled. 

 

“Just my luck. What do you want, Potter?” 

 

Ahead, Uncle Vernon froze and spun around. By his side, Aunt Petunia squawked, “You  _ know  _ this person?!” 

 

Harry ignored them. “What do I—what do  _ I want _ —Malfoy, what’re you doing on the streets? In  _ Muggle London _ ?” 

 

Malfoy sighed impatiently, yanking the hood back and tilting his head up. Harry had wondered why the vain Slytherin prince would ever choose to wear such shabby clothes; with the hood gone, he realized that without them, Malfoy wouldn’t have lasted a day before those fine, distinctive features clued someone into his highborn status. As it was, he wondered how someone as accustomed to luxury as Malfoy had survived out here for—however long it had been. And, more pressingly,  _ why _ . 

 

Malfoy was answering his question. Harry pulled his thoughts back to the present. 

 

“Obviously I  _ ran away _ , Potter, are you always this obtuse? Oh, what am I saying,  _ of course  _ you are.”

 

Harry felt himself bristle. The universe really had it in for him today. “How is that  _ obvious _ ? And why would you, proud Malfoy heir, always boasting about your family name—why would  _ you  _ run away?” 

 

Malfoy’s eyes flashed and he opened his mouth—only to close it and look away, the angry light in his eyes fading as he slumped back against the wall. It was another moment before he spoke. “I—the day school ended, I received a letter from Father. ‘We will be hosting an important guest at the Manor from now on. Be on your best behaviour.’ I couldn’t—I didn’t want to live in the same house as that—as  _ Him _ .” 

 

Somehow, the notion that Voldemort was hiding in Malfoy Manor was not as surprising as it should have been, and not nearly as surprising as receiving such an honest answer. Harry filed the information aside, his mind already flashing back to the World Cup—to seeing Malfoy leaning casually against a tree, smirking as the campsite burned around them. 

 

“Couldn’t you? I would’ve thought you’d be ecstatic to play host to the  _ Dark Lord _ .” Malfoy stared at him disbelievingly, as though he had claimed that Hagrid’s lessons were the safest at Hogwarts. Under that gaze, Harry felt himself waver. He remembered that Malfoy was, under all the layers of awful, just another fifteen-year-old. “Oh—alright, fine, you’ve made your point.” He looked curiously at the little nest Malfoy had built. “Why the streets, though? Why not use magic to make yourself comfortable?” 

 

The disbelieving look returned. “I still have the Trace on me, Potter. If I used so much as a  _ Lumos  _ the Ministry would track me down.” He held up the satchel. “I put an infinite holding spell on this before leaving school, but I could only carry what I had on me at Hogwarts. Unfortunately, that did not include a tent.”

 

“So you’ve just been, what, sleeping on the streets since school ended? Have you even been eating?” 

 

“Of course I have food, Potter, I’m not an idiot,” Malfoy snapped. “I packed as much as I could at Hogwarts. It lasted long enough, only ran out two days ago—” He shut his mouth quickly, looking irritated, but the damage was done. 

 

“So,” Harry said, “you’re out of food.” 

 

It seemed almost physically painful for Malfoy to force the words out. “Yes. Alright? Yes, I’ve run out. If you’d like to gloat—”

 

“Come home with me.” He hadn’t intended to say it, didn’t fully realize he had until Malfoy’s gaze turned blank, and then Harry felt his face burn. “I mean—you can eat. If you come with me. Have a warm dinner, maybe sleep in an actual bed—it’s better than what you’ve got out here.” 

 

Behind him, his relatives were squawking their protest. Neither Harry nor Malfoy paid them any mind. Malfoy’s eyes flicked from Harry’s shoes to his head, gaze wary and faintly annoyed. 

 

“I’m not in need of saving, Golden Boy, thank you very much. If you’re that desperate to satisfy your savior complex, I’m sure you can find some old lady’s lost cat. In fact, I’ll put one up a tree myself, just for you.” 

 

Harry ground his teeth, then closed his eyes and counted to ten. It didn’t work, but he was determined to power through this anyway. Maybe he  _ did _ have a complex. 

 

“Look, Malfoy, I  _ really  _ don’t like you—but you shouldn’t be here alone. Especially not at a time like this. And you’re never going to survive out here on your own.” Malfoy bristled at that and seemed about to speak. Harry plowed onwards. “ _ So _ , I’m asking you to  _ please _ ,” he grit his teeth, “for the sake of my  _ saviour complex _ , come home with me and have some dinner.” 

 

For a long moment, Malfoy was silent, face unreadable, and then slowly he arched an eyebrow and smirked. “Alright, Potter. If it’s for your complex’s sake. Sure.” 

 

Relief overpowered the urge to roll his eyes. “Good. Great. You can sleep in my old… er… bedroom.” 

 

Malfoy gave him an odd look, but he stuffed his fabric nest into the satchel and stood. He did not offer to hold one of the grocery bags, which was just typical, but he did insult Harry’s shoes. 

 

±±

 

Harry led the way to his room, yesterday’s heated leftovers and two bottles of Coke balanced on a small tray. He could still sense Uncle Vernon’s aura of rage from down the hall. 

 

Uncle Vernon had ambushed Harry in the kitchen, demanding to know where he got off inviting riff-raff hoodlums into the house—and  _ wizarding  _ ones, at that. Harry hadn’t had a response, given the particular individual he had chosen to invite, and he had been saved from answering when the offending wizard himself had stepped into the kitchen to introduce himself. 

 

Malfoy was terribly polite, with all the grace and courtesy of a prince, but his aristocratic accent had been dialled up several notches, and Harry got the distinct sense that every word out of his mouth was an insult, even if he couldn’t pinpoint exactly how. Uncle Vernon, who had received the full brunt of this attack, had clearly had the same impression, because he had very quickly retreated into the living room to stew. 

 

It was probably for the best that he’d decided to eat alone with Malfoy. A few minutes of Malfoy-Dursley interaction had been quite amusing, but Harry didn’t think he could survive a whole meal. 

 

“And this,” he said as they approached the stairs, his grand gesture towards the broom closet accentuating the deadpan tone, “is my old bedroom, inside which you will find all manner of trinkets documenting the life of one Boy-Who-Lived, aged one to eleven.” 

 

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed, but Harry was already climbing the stairs. They settled on the floor of Harry’s new room, leaning back against the side of the bed with the tray at their feet. Malfoy picked up the Coke bottle between thumb and forefinger, tilting it so that the liquid swirled. 

 

“...What is this?”

 

Harry looked at him sideways. “Coke. Have you—have you never had a Coke?”

 

“No. Is it alcoholic?” 

 

“Oh, no.” Harry bit back a grin. “No, it’s—it’s very smooth and… watery. Try it.” 

 

Malfoy frowned at him, but he brought the bottle to his lips, tipped it up, and swallowed. Harry closed his eyes and waited a beat. 

 

“Gah!” Malfoy covered his mouth, coughing furiously. “What—what in Salazar’s name  _ is _ that?!” 

 

Harry, for his part, was doing his very best not to laugh. Not out of consideration for Malfoy’s feelings, of course—but he refused to find anything the Slytherin did at all entertaining. “It’s called a fizzy drink,” he explained, once Malfoy had stopped coughing. “It fizzes.” 

 

Malfoy glowered at him. “What kind of monster invites a starving man home only to  _ assault  _ him with the very nourishment he came for?” 

 

“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” Harry scoffed, reaching for a plate. “It can’t have been as bad as the time you got turned into a ferret.”    
  
Malfoy turned several shades paler, if that was even possible. “We do not speak of that,” he hissed, turning his scowl on the carpet. Harry huffed a breath, only half a laugh, and tried not to let his thoughts fall back into fourth year. 

 

They ate in silence for a time, not quite tense but not at all relaxed, and then, suddenly, Malfoy spoke. 

 

“That… hole in the wall… was that really your bedroom? For ten years?”

 

Harry set his plate down and sighed. “Yep.” 

 

“And Dumbledore just… sends you back here? Ever year? And you’re  _ okay _ with that?”

 

Harry knew he should say yes—yes, of course, it’s all a part of Dumbledore’s big plan, so of course he’s okay with it, why wouldn’t he be? But Malfoy was looking at him, and he wasn’t Ron or Hermione, wasn’t a Gryffindor, wasn’t one of Dumbledore’s men, and he certainly wouldn’t try to tell Harry that  _ Dumbledore always has his reasons _ , and something inside him, something stretched too tight for too long, finally snapped. 

 

“No, I’m not bloody  _ okay with it _ , but I can’t do anything, can I? No one will write to me, no one’s responded to my letters all summer. What’s the point in complaining about the Dursleys? If the most feared Dark Wizard in history isn’t important enough to write me about—if they won’t even send me a  _ note  _ to tell me how they’re doing—how could I expect  _ anyone  _ to care about my crappy aunt and uncle?” 

 

He realized, when he was done, that he had almost been shouting. Harry glanced warily at Malfoy; to his surprise, the Slytherin had a faint smile on his face, rather than the usual smirk. 

 

“I know what you mean,” he said softly, giving the Coke another swirl. “Wishing people would tell you things.” His smile turned sour. “Only, now that I know some things, I wish I didn’t. I wish—I sometimes wish I could go back to the way it was before, when I could blindly follow my father’s orders and trust that everything would turn out alright.” 

 

“I must be living the dream then,” Harry muttered, knowing that his tone was laden with bitter self-pity and not giving a damn about it. “All I seem to do these days is blindly trust adults and follow instructions.” He sat up straighter. “God, it’s like everyone expects me to be some sort of standby Hero, always waiting for the call to action, always ready to do whatever Dumbledore or whoever else tells me, never allowed to question anything or  _ know _ anything beyond the immediate threat. And, fine, if I’m going to be the Hero, fine, I can come to terms with that! But if they all expect me to save the world then they should at least tell me everything—or  _ anything. _ ” 

 

His voice cracked at the end of the tirade; Harry jolted back to reality. Surely, now, Malfoy would get mad, go off on one of his “Prat Who Lived” rants? He turned, cautious, to gauge his guest’s reaction; it had been a long day, and Harry was not up for a lecture.

 

He was surprised, to say the least, when Malfoy glanced at him, took a swig of his Coke, and said, “Fuck ‘em.” 

 

Harry blinked. “...What?”

 

Malfoy shrugged. “I know what you mean. Well, not about being everyone’s Saviour, obviously, that’s exclusive to your saintly self. But people have always made decisions for me, too. What to wear, how to sit, who to talk to, what to say, who to be. And I’m supposed to just—do it.” He took another swig, and Harry was oddly reminded of a jaded pirate in a seaside pub. “Well, I say, not anymore. Fuck all of them. From now on, I make my own choices.” 

 

In spite of himself, Harry felt a smile creep up on him. “Is that why you ran away?” 

 

Malfoy gagged. “I can see what you’re thinking, Potter, and you’re  _ wrong _ . Do you really think I would forsake my life of luxury because of some misguided sense of moral integrity? I ran away because  _ the Dark Lord  _ is  _ living  _ in my  _ house _ . I am  _ scared _ .” 

 

“Draco Malfoy, conquistador of the Forbidden Forest, vanquisher of Hippogriffs,  _ scared _ of something? Unbelievable.” 

 

They shared a grin—Harry’s brain screamed,  _ what?! _ —and then fell silent. The lapse in conversation dragged on, until a thought occurred. 

 

“Malfoy, where were you even planning to run  _ to _ ?” 

 

“I don’t know. I’ll just keep running, make ends meet as I go.” Almost in a whisper, he added, “Who knows, maybe I’ll even stumble upon the Well.” 

 

“What well?” 

 

Malfoy stared at him, jaw hanging. “You—you’re joking, right? Right, Potter?” When Harry remained silent, Malfoy’s eyes widened and he groaned. “This,  _ this  _ is what happens when Muggleborns aren’t given a  _ proper wizarding  _ education!”

 

Harry bristled. “I’m a Half-Blood, and I had a perfectly good Muggle education, thank you.” 

 

Malfoy waved him off. “The Well is—it’s an ancient magic. No one knows where it is or how long ago it was created, but certainly not before the seventeenth century, for sure. It requires seven sacrifices to work, but accounts say that it gives something to whoever can find it—something that changes their life. Each sacrifice comes with a clue leading to the next, and that leads you to the Well—but it’s no simple scavenger hunt.” The corners of his lips quirked upwards; he looked at the floor. “I’ve been studying the lore around it since I was a child.” As though catching himself, he looked up and the smile became a smirk. “It could set me up for life, give me all the riches I want.” At Harry’s look, he added, “My  _ own _ money, not my parents’, that I could use however I wanted.” 

 

“Changes your life, does it?” Harry grinned ruefully. “Maybe it would give me something to defeat Voldemort from the comfort of my bedroom.” 

 

Malfoy was silent. When Harry glanced over, he saw the Slytherin watching him with some unidentifiable emotion. After a beat, he spoke. 

 

“Let’s go after it.” 

 

“What?”

 

“You and me. We might get lucky. Find the Well, take what it gives us, and run away to Nauru. They’ll never find us.” 

 

“Yeah, that’s the dream.”

 

“I’m serious, Potter. Let’s do it.” 

 

“That’s mad, Malfoy. You’re mad.” 

 

“Are you saying you  _ aren’t _ ?” 

 

That was fair. Harry switched tactics. 

 

“How would we even start? You said there are clues—”

 

“I have the first one.” Malfoy dug into his bag and produced a folder bulging with what looked to be maps and notes, out of which he extracted a faded strip of parchment. On it were several lines of a complicated-looking rune. “I had this great great aunt on my mother’s side who went looking for it. No one ever saw her again, but she left a copy of the first clue for her descendants. It’s been passed through the Black family for generations, but no one was arsed to do anything with it—until me. Like I said, I’ve been researching the Well for years, and,” he paused theatrically, “I think I know where the first sacrifice is.”

 

Harry looked at him for a long moment. It had been weeks since he’d heard from anyone—friends, teachers, Sirius. In the height of summer, he was starting to go mad, left to sit in his room and run house errands while somewhere out there Voldemort gathered his army and somewhere else his friends were surely together. And in the middle of all this, Malfoy—prattish as ever, but also devilish and intense and earnest—had crashed into his life with a map and a clue, and a magic that could change lives. 

 

“Fuck it,” Harry said. “Sure.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's song is Crazy, by Gnarls Barkley. 
> 
> UGH FINALLY I have been waiting all damn week to post this adfefhvevhdvjewo 
> 
> Today was my first day back to school... first day of the IB diploma programme... yay... I'm just _so_ excited to get into TOK and Extended Essay and... *cries* 
> 
> This fic is going to get me through the first semester ^-^; 
> 
> Hope you liked this chapter! If you did, hey, maybe comment and let me know~


	3. Lone Digger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> paid for by the exeter board of tourism

 

Harry watched the scenery shift as the train rumbled out of London. They had fled Privet Drive at dawn, Harry’s luggage stuffed into Malfoy’s infinite satchel, leaving a brief note on the kitchen table. Hedwig had been sent to The Burrow with a placating letter, where she was to stay until the end of the summer. 

 

Their first crisis of the trip had occurred at the train station; both Harry and Malfoy may have been rich, but wizarding riches held little value in the Muggle world. Harry had been incredulous, demanding to know just how Malfoy planned to get by with no money. Malfoy, grumbling, had produced a pouch of leprechaun gold. 

 

“I nicked it from a third-year,” he’d said. “How was I supposed to know Muggle shops wouldn’t accept gold?” 

 

In the end, it had been Harry’s idea to pawn it. Quite a brilliant idea, in his opinion: they could repeat the scam as many times as needed, and the gold would always return to them by the end of the day. Even Malfoy had seemed impressed. Now, though, as his eyes refocused on the train window, a part of Harry regretted providing Malfoy with limitless funds. 

 

Harry glumly considered his reflection, wondering why he had ever let Malfoy choose his  clothes. It was true, of course, that they needed disguises—Harry was always being recognized, even in the Muggle world, and Malfoy’s parents would surely have search parties looking for him—but, really, this was just pathetic. Harry’s jeans were a size too tight, his T-shirt was Slytherin green, and the baseball cap meant to cover his scar kept bumping the upper rim of his glasses. Malfoy, of course, looked perfectly ordinary in comfortable black jeans and a pale blue shirt, and Harry suspected that the Slytherin had done it on purpose. 

 

He pulled a face at his reflection and turned his attention to Malfoy. It was strange, to say the least, to sit across from his archenemy of four years like this, knowing that they would be together for a while. Harry wasn’t sure that he entirely trusted Malfoy—he had a long history, after all, of cruel tricks. Still, he seemed sincere, in a way—and, despite his love for dramatic reenactments of Harry’s failures, Malfoy really wasn’t a very good actor. Like Harry, he was too quick to react, wearing his emotions on his sleeves.

 

Harry thought back to the night before, to the truce they had agreed on. Malfoy had taken it a step further, asking for a cleared slate between them.

 

“I intend to rediscover myself, away from my family, and become Someone New,” he had declared, and stuck out his hand. “With that said: my name is Draco Malfoy. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” 

 

Harry had gone back four years in that moment, to that day on the train. Had felt those old emotions rising in him again. This time, he had stomped them down and taken the offered hand. A strange expression had flashed briefly behind Malfoy’s eyes, but they had been perfectly civil to each other since. Still, at the back of Harry’s mind, Malfoy was still the same arsehole from school. 

 

Currently,  his archenemy was buried in an anthology of monsters half as big as he was. His hair, devoid of gel, fell into his eyes; every so often he moved to brush it away. He seemed surrounded by an aura that was almost soft. It was a disconcerting thought. 

 

Abruptly, Malfoy flung the book down and groaned. “It’s useless—I just can’t work this damn creature out!”

 

Harry rubbed a hand against his temples. “Just—try reading the clue again.” 

 

Heaving an irritated sigh, Malfoy closed his eyes and spoke. “ _ Where the world ends. Where the dragon drinks the sea. Where Neptune makes his home. There find the monster the earth-eaters fear. _ ” 

 

It was written in an ancient runic form; Malfoy had translated it years ago. Harry frowned. 

 

“You’d think he could at least make it rhyme.”

 

Malfoy’s eyes snapped open. “Excuse  _ you _ , Potter, it happens to be  _ beautiful  _ in its original form!” He gave another sigh. “We’ve established that the world’s end is the coast, and the dragon is Lizard Point, and Neptune’s home must be some sort of undersea cave—but I can’t think of any monster that fits the description.”

 

“Maybe you mistranslated it.” 

 

Malfoy glared. “I have been researching the Well since the day my mother gave me the clue when I was  _ five _ , Potter. I took up Ancient Runes solely for this purpose and I have spent more weekends engaged in private library study on the subject than the Weasel has freckles on his face.” 

 

“Er—”

 

“I did  _ not _ . Mistranslate. It.” He scowled. “It’s just this monster…” 

 

“Maybe you’re fixating on the idea of a ‘monster’. It’s all relative right? To a worm, a bird would be a…” Harry trailed off and his eyes widened. “Wait, ‘earth-eater’... worms are ‘earth-eaters’ in a way, aren’t they? Malfoy, which magical creatures eat worms?” 

 

“Horklumps come to mind—but they’re garden pests. They don’t live in the ocean.” 

 

“No,” Harry said. The cogs were turning in his head. “No, there’s a variety that’s aquatic—they live in sea caves. They’re always being confused for mushrooms.” He grinned. “Neville’s told me  _ all  _ about that.” 

 

A slow grin spread across Malfoy’s face. “You know, that might be it! Who knew Longbottom could be so useful.” 

 

Harry thought back to Neville’s lecture, on that rainy day when he and Ron were still not speaking, and Neville had tried to cheer him up, in his own way. Horklumps were small, fleshy creatures, living almost as plants. Not quite the stuff of legend, let alone any kind of sacrifice. He said as much to Malfoy, who hummed thoughtfully. 

 

“The items are more like offerings, from what I’ve read. The sacrifice is more what the adventurer puts himself through to obtain them.” 

 

“Isn’t that reassuring.” 

 

Malfoy stuffed the book into his bag and pulled out another, larger book, with golden lettering declaring its subject as English royal history. He settled back against the seat and opened it, a faint smile blooming on his face as he read. Harry stared.

 

“Are you reading that for  _ fun _ ?” 

 

“Yes. And?” 

 

“I always knew you were a Potions nerd, but I never expected you to be a History nerd, too.” 

 

“Shut up, Potter. Not all of us have Quaffles for brains.” 

 

“You sound like Hermione.”

 

“ _ Take it back. _ ”

 

±±

 

Harry squinted upwards, to the point where the narrow, winding stairs disappeared into the black. It was a dodgy set-up, this bed-and-breakfast, but five-star hotels weren’t exactly the norm in the Questing business. 

 

Malfoy gripped his bag tighter. “Why are we  _ here _ ?” 

 

“You’re the one who insisted on stopping in Exeter. I was ready to make the whole journey without a rest stop.” He ignored the dirty look thrown his way and took the first step. It creaked loudly under his weight, an inhuman groan. Harry kept going. 

 

Behind him, Malfoy muttered, “This place is the locational equivalent of a falling dream.” 

 

Their room was on the top floor. It wasn’t a tall building by any means, but these stairs seemed to spiral upwards without end. Harry came to a stop at (he hoped) the halfway point and heaved a long breath. 

 

“God, I wish this place had a lift…” 

 

From several stairs below, he heard Malfoy’s voice, equally winded; he wasn’t too far behind, but Harry could only locate him by the flash of blond hair in the darkness. “What’s a  _ lift _ ?” 

 

“A—a  _ lift _ —” Harry shook his head. And Malfoy claimed that  _ Muggleborn _ education was incomplete. “It’s like—a metal box that you stand in, and it takes you up and down buildings, through a sort of vertical tunnel.” 

 

There was a beat of silence. Harry resumed his climb. The pair of them creaked on in silence until Malfoy suddenly spoke. 

 

“A  _ metal box _ ? Are Muggles  _ mad _ ? That sounds horrifying.” 

 

Harry grinned to himself. “It’s not as bad as it sounds. But, really, in fifteen years, I can’t believe you’ve never seen a lift… you Purebloods really don’t know anything about the normal world.” 

 

“Teach me, then.” 

 

Harry stopped and turned around. Malfoy had caught up; Harry could make out his silhouette a few steps below, could see his eyes shining through the black. 

 

“What?” 

 

“Teach me about Muggle things. If I’m to survive outside the Wizarding world, I ought to know more about the Muggle one.”

 

Harry stared at him a beat longer. He had an odd feeling that this Quest was going to bring more than he had bargained for. 

 

±±

 

Their first stop, after making it to the top and claiming their room, was the cinema. Naturally. It seemed unreal to Harry that Malfoy had existed so long without encountering the concept of televised storytelling. He left Malfoy to buy snacks while he bought tickets to Pocahontas, the new Disney movie released that summer: you couldn’t go wrong with Disney, Harry figured. 

 

He returned to find Malfoy in the midst of an animated conversation with the woman behind the counter. 

 

“What’s—what’s _a_ _popcorn_ —kid, have you never been to a cinema?” 

 

“No, I haven’t. Is it that obvious?” 

 

“I—I don’t—are you serious?” 

 

“Quite. Mother and Father would never have let me come to a place like this.” He paused, eyes skimming the food packets. “It’s all very fascinating. Yes, I think I will take a bit of everything—”

 

“Oh, no, no, no!” Harry darted through the line of spectators and grabbed Malfoy’s arm. “No, I’m sorry, we  _ won’t  _ be taking everything, actually.” To Malfoy, he hissed, “What are you doing?! You can’t spend all our money on snacks!” 

 

Malfoy snatched his arm back. “We can get  _ more _ , Potter, that’s the whole fun of being  _ rich _ .” 

 

Harry felt his eye twitch. “No, that’s… you can’t… god, Malfoy, what am I going to  _ do  _ with you? You can’t just—”

 

“Excuse me, Princess Anne and Joe Bradley,” the woman interrupted. Harry felt his cheeks burn at the reference as he met her unamused gaze. “But if I could please take your order…?” 

 

“Right, yes, sorry—two mixed popcorns, a Coke, and, er…” 

 

“A blue slooshie,” Malfoy finished. 

 

“Sl _ uh _ -shie.”

 

“Shut up, Potter.” 

 

Later, as he savored the palm-oily goodness of a vanilla soft serve, Harry reflected that the movie had been worth the struggle. 

 

“You,” he announced between licks, “could stand to learn a lot from that John Smith.” 

 

Malfoy snorted. He had a thin line of ice cream just above his lip; Harry took great pleasure in  _ not  _ telling him. “And I suppose you think you’re Pocahontas?” 

 

“I could be. I, too, have gravity defying hair.” 

 

Malfoy laughed at that; it was a genuine sound, and it surprised Harry, and startled him. “Alright, then, spirit guide,” he gestured grandly, “where do the colors of the wind lead us today?” 

 

Harry considered this, and a nearby flyer caught his eye. He grinned. “How about there?” 

 

±±

 

‘There’, it turned out, was St. Nicholas’ Priory, faded red and, unfortunately, closed for viewing. This did not bother Malfoy, who seemed to take it upon himself to act the tour guide as they stood before the entry.

 

“There used to be a church right here,” Malfoy said, his voice taking on a lecturing quality. Harry felt almost lulled by it. “Several small monasteries, too, over there… it was a Benedictine monastery, in the beginning… of course that all changed after we got through with it.” 

 

“Sorry, who?” 

 

“The Malfoy’s, Potter, keep up.” Malfoy trailed his fingers along the bricks; they came away dusted red. “It’s well known that King Henry the Eighth had the church and monasteries torn down in the mid-fifteen hundreds… what most people don’t know is that he sold it to my ancestors. Of course, they were the ones who convinced him to tear the monasteries down in the first place. Saved them the trouble of doing it themselves when they converted it into a manor.” His eyes glinted. “Want to know who lived there?” 

 

Harry did not. Malfoy carried on nonetheless. 

 

“Bethilda Malfoy, oh, she was an interesting one. She was a  _ scientist _ , and she did all  _ sorts  _ of experiments in this building… it’s all in the family records. See, Bethilda was interested in the nature of magic—in its connection with witches and wizards, as opposed to Muggles. Does magic respond to us because we, too, are magical?—or is it only that we, unlike Muggles, have the capacity to recognize the magical forces acting upon us?” He paused theatrically. Against his will, Harry found himself leaning in to catch Malfoy’s next words, spoken in a low hush. “She gathered subjects—Muggles and wizards alike—and took them down, down the steps into those dark, wet cellars. For most of them, it was the last time they ever saw the sunlight.” 

 

“What happened to them?” Harry found that his voice had also dropped. 

 

“Experiments, of course. She tested all kinds of magic on them. Would Muggles respond to the tickling charm as wizards did? How about the Cruciatus? Could they be affected by potions? Would, for instance, the Calming Draught work on a non-magical body? Well, after what they experienced in those cellars, I don’t suppose a Calming Draught would be any use to a wizard, let alone a Muggle.” He let out a quiet sigh. “She carried on like that for years, into her old age, until one day she went too far. 

 

“You see, Bethilda grew bored of Muggles. Soon it became apparent that magic worked just as well on them as it did on wizards, and that was only fun for so long. She became interested in the relationship between wizards and magical beasts—and so a new age of experiments began. That was how they found her… the townsfolk heard screams from the manor and came running to check. All her Wards were gone, so for the first time they saw the state of decay it was in. They found the cellar, found her victims, both living and dead. In the sitting room, they found old Bethilda, half-eaten on the floor, face still twisted in a soundless cry. And there, in the corner of the room, fur matted with blood, they saw it. 

 

“At first, they thought it a wild beast, some sort of mutated wolf, until…” His voice dropped even lower, barely a breath. Harry leaned closer. “Until it turned around and, with a human face, spoke.” 

 

There was silence. Harry felt encompassed by the space between himself and Malfoy—barely an inch of air. He didn’t dare to breathe. Time seemed to drag on forever and a moment, and then Malfoy smirked and leaned back. 

 

“Now, then, Potter… how much of that was true?”    
  
“Malfoy!” Harry flushed, irritated—with himself, with Malfoy, with this damn building for existing. “Stop laughing, that wasn’t—that’s not funny!” 

 

“I thought it was pretty funny,” Malfoy snickered. “Besides, maybe half of it  _ was _ true. Or none of it. Or maybe  _ all  _ of it. You don’t know.”

 

“I hate you,” Harry muttered. “I hate this truce—call off the truce for a minute so I can punch you.” 

 

“No thanks,” Malfoy said lightly, darting out of reach. “Granger did that once, and my nose has never been quite the same.” 

 

The satisfaction of that knowledge was enough to keep Harry going for the rest of the day. 

 

±±

 

The remainder of their time was spent wandering through Exeter, stopping and pausing as they pleased. Throughout it all, Harry’s struggles with Malfoy persisted. After dragging Malfoy out of the art gallery, where he had immediately begun to lecture Harry on art history, Harry had come to the conclusion that aristocrats were entirely mad. Or maybe it was just Malfoy. Harry had befriended a kitten just outside the gallery, and he had done his best, really his best, to get Malfoy to pet it. The kitten, uncooperative, had hissed at Malfoy—and Malfoy had  _ hissed back. _ Truthfully, the sight had almost made Harry laugh before he’d stamped it down—but that was beside the point.

 

And now, at the end of such an exhausting day, when all Harry wanted was to lie down, Malfoy was yanking his arm and speaking (always, always speaking). Harry forced himself to tune in.

 

“Are you listening, Potter? We’re having dinner there.” 

 

Harry followed Malfoy’s pointing finger to what appeared to be a small hotdog stand on the corner of the street. He blinked. 

 

“You want... to get street hotdogs?” 

 

“Yes.” 

 

“Why?” 

 

Malfoy let go of Harry’s arm. “I’ve never had street food.” 

 

Harry stared at him, appalled. “You’ve never—? Oh, of  _ course _ , you’ve never—! Come on, then, we’re getting you some right now.”    
  
The hotdogs were greasy and lathered in uneven layers of ketchup and mayonnaise; after just one bite, Harry could feel three years being shaved off his lifespan. 

 

“It’s good, right?”

 

“It’s  _ brilliant _ .” Malfoy smiled, and Harry recalled what the woman at the cinema had said. He pinked. 

 

“Godric’s pajamas, that cinema lady was  _ right _ . This is so cliché…” 

 

Malfoy was struggling with the excesses of a surprise layer of mustard oozing out of the hotdog. “Yes, I’ve been meaning to ask—what did she mean by that? What was she calling us?”

 

Harry’s blush deepened; of course he would have to  _ explain _ it. “She was referencing an old movie, Roman Holiday. It’s… it’s about this princess who runs away, and this journalist who she—who helps her experience ordinary life and—stuff.”

 

Malfoy considered this. “Personally, I’ve always found the reverse story more entertaining… My Fair Lady, and all that. One of these days, I shall take you to see what fine dining in high society looks like.”    
  
Harry shuddered. “No thanks. The only time I ever went to a fancy restaurant was… well, it was bad.” At Malfoy’s raised eyebrow, he explained: “I was nine, and my cousin had just turned ten, so we went out. Mrs Figg, my neighbor, was away that time, so they Dursley’s had to take me with them. But they wouldn’t let me order much, and I was so hungry, and Dudley was just stuffing his face—and I wished, just for a moment, that someone would spill something on him. And then someone did.” He gave a sheepish grin. “I wasn’t allowed to eat out after that. It was worth it, though.” 

 

Malfoy smirked. “Oh, I’ve done that—only, I did it on purpose. It was when I was seven, at a banquet, the first time I met Pansy Parkinson. She would  _ not  _ leave me alone—so I willed the treacle to fall on her head.” 

 

Harry couldn’t help it: he let out a burst of laughter. “No, you didn’t! What happened?” 

 

“Oh, well, you know. Father took my broom away and locked me in the Manor dungeons until sunrise. But he gave it back after a few days, and Pansy and I have been friends since, so it all worked out in the end.” 

 

The conversation lapsed. Malfoy did not seem remotely bothered by what he’d said, but Harry, who was unused to hearing such things from other people, was unsure what to say. A few minutes passed, and then Malfoy tossed his stained paper napkin in a nearby bin and stood. 

 

“I read about this rogue fire crab case in Exeter in the 1700’s,” he said. “Want to hear about it?”

 

“ _ No _ ,” Harry groaned, and the tension was gone. 

 

They returned to their room early in the night; the journey to Lizard was long, and they had an early start ahead of them. It was only after getting changed that Harry realized the room had only one bed. In fact it was the only piece of furniture in the room, not counting the thin carpet and the rather dodgy armchair.

 

Malfoy emerged from the bathroom as Harry contemplated this. 

 

“Er,” Harry said, “I think we could both fit—”

 

“Your options are the chair or the floor, Potter. The bed is mine.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's song is 'Lone Digger' by Caravan Palace. 
> 
>  
> 
> god it's been exactly one week since school started and im already ready for death   
> seriously the only thing that has been keeping me going all week is knowing that if I can make it to Wednesday afternoon I can post the next chapter of this fic  
> but I've been sO BUSY it took me a full week to write chapter five. like. what the fuck. school _just started what the fuck—_
> 
> Anyway. Grouching aside, I really am very excited to post another chapter, and I hope you guys liked it! 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, and if you have the time, maybe leave a comment~?


	4. Namae Wo Yobu Yo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You did say you wanted to learn about Muggle technology.” 
> 
> “Not like this!”

 

Harry sat with his head resting on the stained wooden table, idly poking at the green mush on his plate with the plastic fork. He was beginning to regret insisting on spending as little money as possible: surely there were more pawn shops here, in Plymouth, where they could restock on funds? Still, the Gryffindor side of him was reluctant to spend their ill-begotten money on anything besides the necessities. 

 

Malfoy’s plate remained untouched; he had disappeared into the bathroom moments ago, leaving his bag hanging on the chair. Harry stifled a yawn and tried to sit up. At least at Privet Drive, he thought, he hadn’t ever had to wake up before eight. Maybe if he closed his eyes for just a moment… 

 

“Potter!” Harry’s eyes snapped open, rattling in his skull as his shoulder was aggressively shaken. “Potter, get up and come with me!” Malfoy was grinning (slightly maniacally, but that was normal for him). In the hand that wasn’t engaged in assaulting Harry’s shoulder, he gripped the bag. “Potter, _hurry up_!” 

 

Harry dragged himself off the chair and allowed Malfoy to pull him through the diner and into the bathroom. It wasn’t until they entered a stall that he pulled back. 

 

“Malfoy, what—” Harry broke off as he was hit by a wave of stench. It was as though the smells of unflushed toilet, sweaty shoe, and dog piss in the rain had been rolled into one unpleasant package, and tied with a ribbon of month-old fish intestine. He covered his nose. “Malfoy, what the  _ bloody fuck _ —” 

 

“Look!” 

 

Harry looked. On the wall beside the toilet was a thick, pulsing layer of bright green. He fought the urge to vomit and turned to Malfoy. “Are you going to explain?” 

 

“That, Potter, is a Bundimun infestation.” 

 

“Bundi-what?” 

 

“ _ Bundimun _ . They’re a type of magical beast—wizards identified them as one centuries ago and left it at that. The only studies done about them were experiments about how to get rid of them.” 

 

Harry didn’t understand why he had been dragged from his seat to look at the Wizarding equivalent of maggots. “So?”

 

“ _ So _ , no one’s ever studied their uses in Potions. Which is why  _ I _ am going to.” He dug into the bag and produced several large vials. “I’m going to experiment with them, get results, and become ridiculously rich.” Gently, he dragged the first vials upwards along the wall; it filled with pulsing green. 

 

Harry bit the inside of his cheek and tried to think about strawberries. “I think those other wizards had the right idea, Malfoy. This thing smells like Ron’s great aunt Tessie.”

 

“Delightful. I’ll have that embroidered onto a throw cushion and mail it to you from my mansion in Nauru.” 

 

Harry couldn’t take it anymore: he backed out of the stall and returned to his chair. Suddenly his breakfast seemed even less appetizing. A good ten minutes later, Malfoy reappeared, looking entirely too happy. 

 

“Shall we?” he said. 

 

And so the journey to Lizard began. 

 

±±

 

It took them five hours: a train, a walk, a bus, and another walk. It felt like an eternity, yet they arrived just before noon. ( _ This _ , Malfoy insisted, was why they had had to wake up at five.) Harry found them an inn by the coast. When he came out, Malfoy was walking away from a young couple. 

 

“I’ve found our cave,” he announced, and pointed towards the cliffs jutting into the sea. “Do you see that? See how it looks vaguely like a lizard? That’s the dragon’s head. There’s a sea cave down there, too.” 

 

Harry grinned, before a thought occurred. “Now all that’s left is getting down there…” He looked at Malfoy’s bag. “I don’t suppose you’ve got any Gillyweed in there?” 

 

“No, unfortunately.” Malfoy frowned. “But Gillyweed wasn’t discovered until the late eighteen hundreds, and the Bubble Head charm was invented in nineteen thirty-four, so there must be another way…” 

 

“We could dive for it.” At Malfoy’s puzzled look, Harry explained, “It’s a Muggle thing—you wear a wetsuit and breathe using an oxygen tank. I’ve done it once, when I was ten.” It had been a stroke of sheer luck: Dudley had chickened out at the last minute, and the guide had asked if Harry would like to go instead. Harry had responded before the Dursleys could refuse, and had enjoyed two days of diving before the holiday ended and he was returned to the cupboard. “Yes, I think that could work. We might be too young to rent the equipment without a guide, though.” 

 

Malfoy looked faintly ill at the suggestion. Harry smiled innocently at him. “You did say you wanted to learn about Muggle technology.” 

 

“Not like this!” 

 

“Well, do you have a better idea?” 

 

“I…” He fell silent for several seconds, and then made a sound close to a growl and spun on his heel, stomping in the direction of the inn. “I’ll make an ageing potion,” he called over his shoulder. “And an exploding potion, which I shall force-feed to you if this goes wrong.” 

 

Harry waved cheerfully at him, and then wandered down to the beach. He sat down, watching the water rinse the sand, and allowed his thoughts to return to London. He thought about Ron and Hermione. How mad were they? Furious, he imaged, and worried, too. He had explained in the letter that he was with Malfoy, who had run away, and that he had left of his own choice—that much, at least, he felt was owed to them. Beyond that, he had given no detail, no indication of where he was going or why. He had promised to be back by the time school started—but that would hardly be enough to calm them down. 

 

He wondered, suddenly, if they had even read his letter. Maybe they were busy—too busy preparing for the oncoming war against Voldemort, or whatever else had kept them from writing to him, to concern themselves with what Harry was doing. 

 

The thought depressed him. Harry stood and made his way back to the inn, where Malfoy was working on the potion. He was seated in the center of their room, stirring furiously. Harry was used to seeing Malfoy with his face languid and mocking; concentration had sharpened it so that he suddenly looked older, his pointed features lending to an appearance of sophistication rather than arrogance. Harry considered him for a moment, and then dropped into bed (there were two this time, thank Godric) and closed his eyes. 

 

He was woken far too soon. At least Malfoy wasn’t shaking him this time. 

 

“It’s three,” he said by way of greeting. “We should go.” 

 

The ageing potion worked well; they were easily able to rent their gear, and left alone to set up on the beach. Harry drilled Malfoy on the basics as they struggled to fix their respirators to their oxygen tanks. 

 

“Remember, once we rise back to five meters, we’ve  _ got  _ to stop for three minutes, otherwise the bubbles in your tissues expand and cause all sorts of problems.”    
  
“Yes.” 

 

“And you need to breathe slowly and calmly, and check your oxygen level from time to time.” 

 

“Yes.” 

 

“And you need to equalize your ears  _ every meter _ . Do you remember how?”

 

Malfoy sighed. “ _ Yes _ , Potter.” 

 

“Good.” He finished attaching the respirator and got to work on the jacket. “We might be going fairly deep, deeper than is ever done on your first dive, so just… stay near me, okay?” 

 

“Will do, Golden Boy. Now would you help me get this thing on?” 

 

Harry helped Malfoy with his jacket, and then put on his own. They both stood, staggering with the weight of the tanks. Slowly, they made their way into the water. Harry spat in his goggles, wiped them, and rinsed them out with seawater. Malfoy’s face twisted, but he repeated the action without comment and put them on. Harry had left his glasses with his clothes; along with the ageing potion, Malfoy had provided him with a potion to temporarily fix his eyesight. Hopefully, it would last long enough. 

 

“Ready?” Malfoy nodded. They placed the respirators into their mouths and deflated their jackets, sinking under the waves. 

 

The first few seconds were the hardest. Harry felt his heartbeat increase, a momentary panic engulfing him—and then he took a breath, and another, and all was well. He could breathe underwater. By his side, Malfoy began to breathe deeply as well, and turned his head up, watching the cloud of tiny bubbles race to the surface. Harry touched his arm, drawing Malfoy’s attention back to him, and they headed down. 

 

There was something wonderful about being underwater. Harry had forgotten, after his experiences in the Black Lake, how peaceful it was, soaring under the waves with only the sound of your own breath as company, and nothing but blue as far as the eye could see. He felt lost in it, barely noticing as the water grew colder, and it wasn’t until Malfoy yanked on his ankle that he realized he had swum right past the cave. His dive computer declared: 30 meters. Switching their torches on, they entered. 

 

The cave was large, but the Horklumps were easy enough to find. There was a tumor of them on the ceiling, bulbous and pink. Malfoy recoiled at the sight of them. Waving his underwater notepad and pen at Harry, he moved away from the Horklumps and began running his hands along the cave walls, presumably searching for the next clue. Harry turned back to the Horklumps. He reached out a hand, gagging at the fleshy feel of them, and tore a bunch from the rock. He fumbled with his pockets; it took several attempts before he was able to lift the flap, held down by velcro, and stuff the creatures inside. He repeated this with a second batch, taking even longer this time, and then let himself sink to the floor, staring up at the Horklumps. They were funny, he thought. In their own way. 

 

Malfoy swam over to him. There was writing on the notepad; he must have found the next clue. That was good. Malfoy beckoned to him and then swam out of the cave. It took a moment, but Harry slowly pushed himself up and followed. Once outside, he noticed how much darker the water beneath him was. If he looked straight down, he could see a darker blue, almost black. It was nice. Comforting. He had felt the bite of the cold, before, but now that feeling felt far away. The dark water looked very nice. He stopped swimming and breathed out, feeling himself sink down, down, into that darkness… 

 

Hands seized his shoulders, pulling him up and up and up. The water grew warm around him. Harry’s head turned slowly; he saw Malfoy staring at him with wide-open eyes. They were very pretty. On land, Malfoy’s eyes were grey, maybe silver, but underwater they were pale, the color of moonlight. Very pretty. Also very wide open, and scared, and confused. Harry looked at Malfoy’s eyes, appreciating them, and, gradually, he felt his senses return. 

 

_ Oh, fuck.  _

 

He pulled away from Malfoy, whose hands only tightened. Harry flashed him the  _ O.K.  _ sign, and watched as relief flooded Malfoy’s face. He glared at Harry, and then took his hands away. Harry checked the dive computer: nineteen meters. He signalled to Malfoy, and the two of them rose slowly, heading towards the shore. They spent five minutes at five meters (Harry had started to rise at three, but Malfoy had pulled him back down, apparently no longer satisfied with Harry’s judgement) and then left the water. 

 

They shed their gear and collapsed onto the sand, feeling the sun wash over them, warming their bones. After a long moment, Malfoy groaned and began to peel off his wetsuit. Harry, whose eyes had gone back to seeing in blurs, felt compelled to do the same, but did not take any action to start. Malfoy finished removing his wetsuit and walked away. A minute later, he returned with his towel and clothes, and dropped Harry’s in the sand next to him. Harry didn’t need to put on his glasses to know that Malfoy was glaring at him, but he did anyway. 

 

“What was  _ that _ ?” 

 

“Gas narcosis, most likely. Forgot to mention it. It can happen when you reach thirty meters… feels like being drunk, makes you lose your sense of danger.” He sat up and offered Malfoy a smile. “You did exactly what you were meant to do—take me up a few meters and get me to focus, until it went away. Without you, I don’t know what might have happened.” 

 

Malfoy looked away, his ears tinged pink. “Yes. Well. I should have left you to it, for the sake of all that is sane.” He sat down. “At least we have the Horklumps.” 

 

“Yep.” Harry grimaced. He crawled to his jacket and pulled out a handful. “They’re really gross.” 

 

Malfoy flinched away. “Don’t get near me with those things.” 

 

“Sorry? There’s seawater in my ears. Did you say to come near you? Okay.” 

 

“Potter—Potter, I swear to Merlin—!” He leapt up and backed away as Harry waved the creatures at him, cackling. 

 

“Go on, then,” he said. “I’ll give you a five second head start.” 

 

Malfoy didn’t waste a moment before tearing off, kicking up sand as he fled. Harry counted to three and a half, and then got up and ran after him. 

 

±±

 

Malfoy was in bed when Harry walked into their room that night, holding his takeout almost as a shield. It had been hours since the dive—they had both returned and showered—but Malfoy had still been in a wrathful mood when Harry left and he didn’t want to risk having anything unsavoury thrown at him. He lowered the takeout after a moment, when it appeared that Malfoy was not going to attack him. He was sitting cross-legged on the bed in comically complete silk pajamas, head bent over a parchment. His quill—albino peacock feather—swished back and forth as he wrote, brushing his nose. Almost on cue, Malfoy looked up and waved the parchment. 

 

“Finished!” 

 

Harry brought the food over and sat on Malfoy’s bed. “Let’s hear it, then.” 

 

“ _ Where the lamb king sleeps. Where the angels weep. Where the horned one cannot go. There find the love of the living. _ ” He frowned. “Lamb king…? What sort of clue is that?” 

 

Harry’s mind flashed back to his childhood, to mornings spent in that Christian school his uncle had tried sticking him in for a year—to mornings spent listening to hymns and sermons. He thought. “Maybe he means it symbolically, like a sacrificial lamb. A sacrificial king… hang on, Malfoy, were there any martyred kings? Young ones?” 

 

“How should I know?”

 

“Get that giant bloody book of yours out and check!” 

 

He waited with bated breath as Malfoy fished out the book of royal history and flipped through the pages—and then Malfoy’s face lit up. “Here—Saint Edward the Martyr. He was made king as a teenager, but was killed soon after, and buried in… Shaftesbury! That’s it! The martyred king sleeps in Shaftesbury!” 

 

“Then, the place where angels weep—would that be a cemetery? If the horned one is the Devil—” 

 

“He wouldn’t be able to enter a church. It must be a churchyard. And the love of the living would be—”

 

“Flowers!” they finished together, and shared a grin. 

 

Then Malfoy shifted back, abruptly, and Harry’s grin wavered and fell. How strange, to smile like this with his archenemy. Ex-archenemy? Their status, now, seemed unclear. They finished dinner in silence and got into bed. Shaftesbury was another long journey, which meant another early morning. Harry flipped the lights off and burrowed under the covers. 

 

Through the darkness, Malfoy’s voice came, a whisper. “We don’t make a bad team.” 

 

“No,” Harry whispered back. “We don’t.” 

 

He wondered, for a moment, what might have happened if he had accepted Malfoy’s offer of friendship back in their first year—but only for a moment, as the day soon caught up to him, and he fell soundly asleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's song is Namae Wo Yobu Yo, by Luck Life, for the end credits of Bungou Stray Dogs
> 
> omg guys the diving in this chapter is so irresponsible please do not listen to these dumb boys don't try this at home
> 
> asdfgjhfjrvjr I'm on a school trip this week and one of our guides looks kinda like a discount Tom Felton so my friends and I have been referring to him as Malfoy and one of my friends keeps wandering behind him and going POTTER im losing it
> 
>  
> 
> Anyway... looks like they're starting to trust each other a bit more :) 
> 
>  
> 
> Next week: paper and flowers


	5. Interlude: Meteor Shower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> paper and flowers

 

On the train back to Plymouth, Draco folded flowers. 

 

He had discovered origami not long before he received his Hogwarts letter—but it had been difficult and he had abandoned it shortly thereafter. It wasn’t until two years later, confused and frustrated and  _ always always second _ to Harry Potter, that he had given it another try. Just to distract himself. Just to have this one skill that no one else did. 

 

He kept at it, through the summer, and his skill grew. Soon he had graduated from cranes and started making simple flowers. Father hadn’t approved—but Draco hadn’t seen much of Father anyway, hadn’t seen much of him at all since losing that Quidditch match to Potter. Mother loved his flowers, though, and she put them in vases around the house whenever Father went away. 

 

Then school had resumed. Draco had been eager to show off: first chance he’d got, he’d sent Potter a crane. He no longer had the time to practice, but every so often he would fold something simple and charm it to float above his bed. He enjoyed it, the process of it. Origami was like Potions: tricky, difficult to get the hang of, but really only a matter of following the procedure, once you understood it. 

 

Most importantly, like Potions, it allowed him to empty his mind. Whether stirring a cauldron or folding paper, Draco’s mind would become wholly engrossed in the task at hand, all of his thoughts condensing around the act of following each step. No insecurities about coming second could reach him then, no fears about disappointing Father. All was lost in the soft rustle of paper. 

 

Perhaps that was the reason he had done so much of it in fourth year. After Father had come home with blood on his sleeves and a lurking darkness behind his eyes. After Draco had watched the Triwizard’s first task with his breath caught in his throat and realized that he didn’t want Harry Potter to die. 

 

Draco was good at ignoring things, at pushing unwanted emotions away. So he had folded paper, and washed away his thoughts, and allowed piles and piles of increasingly complex folds to fill that hollow in his chest. And when a voice inside him whispered, traitorous, that  _ it wasn’t working _ , he had taken out more paper, and washed that voice away too. 

 

Potter looked at him quizzically as the compartment filled with floating paper flowers. 

 

“I’ve noticed you doing this in school,” he said, “but this is kind of obsessive.” 

 

“I like it,” Draco responded. “It helps me not to think.” 

 

Potter shrugged. The train rumbled on. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's song is "Meteor Shower" by Cavetown
> 
>  
> 
> So... this is an interlude. Like it? I'm planning to have a few spread over the course of the story to give you guys little insights into Draco's perspective during the Quest. I have to say, I love writing Harry, but I may _love_ writing Draco even more, even though I can't explore his full snarky potential in these little interludes. 
> 
> In any case... woooo I've been back at school for two days since the trip and im already ready for death. Everyone in my year has a cough/cold now, thanks to that trip. This happens _every year._
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! See you in the next one! And, hey, if you're so inclined — comments are my actual lifeblood!
> 
> Next week: cemeteries, fairytales, and something smelly.


	6. Stories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> IM LATE IM SORRY

 

 

They spent only an hour in Plymouth, taking a stop at a pawn shop to replenish their funds. The moment they boarded the first train on the way to Shaftesbury, Malfoy brought out even more paper from his seemingly endless supply and began to fold what appeared to be a rainbow of turtles. Harry watched him work, gaze trapped on Malfoy’s hands. His fingers moved quickly but with an odd sort of grace. It was mesmerizing, almost hypnotic, and it confused Harry greatly. How  _ strange  _ it was to think these things about his previous archenemy (previous because, while they were not quite friends, there was no way Harry could go back to thinking of Malfoy as his  _ enemy _ ). How strange to notice all these little quirks, where before Harry had only noticed the things that irritated him. 

 

A week ago, it had been so simple. Malfoy was the jerk who used big melodramatic hand gestures and wore a perpetual sneer: nothing more to see. 

 

Now he was all that—but also obsessed with origami. Curious about potions. Knowledgeable about ridiculously specific historical anecdotes because he _for some reason_ enjoyed reading historical texts that would make anyone but Hermione cry from the sheer amount of words. He was still an arsehole, but sometimes the mean things he said were _funny_ , and Harry couldn’t bring himself to feel bad for laughing. He was still finicky and melodramatic, but somehow the giant quills and overpriced silk pajamas and the fact that he would only drink coffee with _two and_ _one seventh_ cubes of sugar were all endearing rather than annoying. 

 

It was confusing Harry, and driving him insane. He decided to do the responsible adult thing, and push it to the back of his mind, distracting himself from it with idle conversation. 

 

“Feels like a bit of a let-down after the last one,” he said. “I mean, breaking into a cemetery can’t be very difficult, compared to deep-sea diving.” 

 

Malfoy set down a violet turtle, completing the rainbow, and pulled a face. “Don’t jinx it, Potter. We might run into the Church Grim if you keep that up.” 

 

“The Church Grim? Is that some sort of magical beast?”

 

“Oh, no.” Malfoy met his eyes. “The Grim’s a Muggle monster.” He settled back against the seat, never breaking eye contact. “It started centuries ago. Muggles started burying dogs under the cornerstone of churchyards, a sacrifice to protect the dead against the Devil. And witches, naturally. Of course, Muggles don’t have the magic nor the knowledge to build Wards… but there’s a primitive form of magic inherent in a sacrifice like that. Scores of witches and wizards have been chased out of cemeteries when all they wanted was to visit their deceased Muggle friends… the unlucky ones got caught, after, and burned. Eventually, wizards stopped bothering to pay their respects, or making friends with Muggles in the first place.” 

 

“That’s sad,” Harry murmured, feeling those eyes on him. “No one should be chased away from their loved ones’ graves.” 

 

Malfoy laughed, a short, bitter sound, and Harry startled. “You know, Potter, you and all your friends like to preach to us about accepting Muggles, and I’m not saying we’re entirely right to look down on them—but what makes you lot so sure  _ they’d _ accept  _ us _ ?”

 

Harry didn’t have a response. In spite of himself, in spite of all he knew of Muggles, he heard Uncle Vernon’s vindictive tones ringing in the back of his head, always quick to make that distinction:  _ your kind _ .

 

Malfoy smiled at him, though not very pleasantly. The rest of the trip passed in silence. 

 

±±

 

The streets were quiet today. 

 

They had arrived in Shaftesbury in the late afternoon. After checking into a bed-and-breakfast (still in painful silence), Harry had suggested that they visit the churches. He had made up his mind after only a few minutes in the third—a small church with no surveillance or noticeable guards. 

 

“This is it, this is the one,” he’d decided. “I can feel it.” 

 

He’d expected a fight, or at least a snarky comment, but Malfoy had only shrugged. “Gut instinct seems to work for you,” he’d said, already walking out. “We’ll go with it.” 

 

Now, as they walked back to the bed-and-breakfast, Harry regretted ever bringing up the Church Grim. He was caught between trying to come up with an ice-breaker and wondering why he even  _ cared  _ that they weren’t speaking, when Malfoy suddenly started talking. 

 

“My grand-aunt used to use the Church Grim against me all the time when I was a kid. I was terrified of her. And it, of course. But mostly her.” He flashed Harry a grin.  

 

Harry grinned back, relieved. “Yeah?”

 

“Yeah. Used it on my mother, too, when she was a child.” His voice darted up several octaves. “Don’t slouch, Draco, or the Church Grim will come and eat you! Walk briskly, Narcissa, or the Church Grim will steal your soul!” He returned to his normal voice and pulled a face. “I never  _ really  _ believed her… but the paranoia was always there. You can ask Weasley, I’m sure he heard the same tales growing up.” 

 

“Oh, so the Grim was like Wee Willie Winkie, then.” 

 

“Who?”

 

“Wee Willie Winkie. He’s a Muggle character—when I was a kid, my classmates’ parents used to tell them that if they weren’t asleep by bedtime, Wee Willie Winkie would peep in their windows and snatch them away. There was a whole nursery rhyme about it.” 

 

Malfoy stopped walking and stared at him. “Are you talking about Wilhelm Woesome?” 

 

“Um—” 

 

“No, you definitely are.” He resumed walking, faster now, and Harry hurried to keep up. “I read about this when Snape gave us that essay on werewolves. Woesome was one—a werewolf, that is—in the fourteen hundreds. He had a habit of sneaking around after dark and snatching children up through open windows. Wizarding families in the area caught on, and started locking up by sundown and putting wolfsbane on their windows, and the Muggle families just sort of imitated them, as one does. Bedtime must have become a village-wide curfew… and after Woesome died, and the Wizarding families stopped, Muggles must have kept up the practice.” 

 

“Right,” Harry said slowly. “Kept it up so long that everyone forgot about its origin, and it turned into a nursery rhyme!” He turned this over in his head. Suddenly, all the fairytales he had grown up with seemed to make a lot more sense, seen through the eyes of a wizard. Harry shook his head and smiled. “I don’t suppose Nessie’s one of yours, too?”

 

“The Loch Ness monster? Of course! She’s friends with our Giant Squid.” 

 

“No way.”

 

“Yes, haven’t you ever seen her? We see them together all the time, from the Slytherin Common Room. She likes to visit.”

 

“You’re messing with me again, aren’t you?”

 

“No, I’m serious.” 

 

“Malfoy…”

 

“I’m serious!” 

 

±±

 

Several hours and a pinkie swear to introduce Harry to the Loch Ness Monster later, they were stood outside the gates of the churchyard. It was locked, but the wall was relatively low. Harry found a secure gap in the bricks and hauled himself up, balancing on the top to help Malfoy afterwards. They dropped into the cemetery and began to walk, searching for the clue. 

 

“I bet he’s here,” Malfoy whispered suddenly. “The Church Grim. I bet he’s watching us  _ right now _ .” 

 

“Don’t be stupid. If there was anything here, it would have come out by now.” But he glanced around the cemetery nonetheless, and then a second time, just to be sure. It was a dark space, lit only by the half-moon and the street lamps beyond the wall, and Harry wished he’d thought ahead and brought a torch. 

 

Malfoy shifted closer, brushing their shoulders together. “Oh, no, Potter. That’s what it  _ wants  _ you to think.”

 

“Shut up, Malfoy. Focus on the clue.” 

 

Malfoy ignored him. “It’s out here, alright. Watching…” he leaned in, whispering directly into Harry’s ear, “...waiting.” 

 

“Stop it!” Harry pushed him away, his works broken up by a burst of breathy laughter. He shook his head as Malfoy smirked, and his eyes fell upon a gravestone. “Look at those runes!” 

 

“The next clue.” Malfoy sobered quickly, dropping to his knees beside the stone and producing his quill and parchment from the bag. Harry snatched up the flowers resting by a nearby grave, muttering a soft apology to Lucinda Bagwell, 1909—1991. He placed them gently into the bag and stood. Malfoy was still transcribing the runes. 

 

“Right, this one’s… coin-seller, no, coin- _ master _ … what could that be…?” 

 

Harry shifted in place. He rubbed his arms; it was the middle of summer, but he suddenly wished he had a jumper. “Malfoy, you can translate it later.” 

 

“Yes, yes. But does this mean  _ blue _ or  _ indigo _ ? The runes are messy… I can’t tell if there’s a dot above…” 

 

“It doesn’t  _ matter _ ,” Harry hissed. “They’re practically the same color! Just hurry up!” 

 

“Would you calm down? There’s no one here.” 

 

But Harry wasn’t so sure. It was eerily quiet; he had been able to hear cars and people, before, but now there was silence, broken only by the scratching of Malfoy’s quill. They were right in the center of the graveyard, he realized. The walls suddenly seemed quite far away. A sudden rustle had him leaping half out of his skin; he glared at Malfoy, whose hand was re-emerging from the bag. 

 

“What? I ran out of ink.” He smirked. “Aww, did I  _ scare _ you? Is wee Potty scared of the Church Grim?”

 

“No!” Harry said fiercely. “Would you  _ shut up  _ and finish writing the clue!” 

 

Thankfully, Malfoy did, looking entirely too pleased with himself. Harry resumed his vigil, eyes sweeping the cemetery for any sign of movement. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something felt wrong. He shivered again, although there was no breeze and the air was still and warm. 

 

“Alright, just one more line…” 

 

A rustle. A breath. A twig cracking. Harry forced himself to stay calm. Malfoy was right—there was nothing out here. Just a few more seconds, and then they’d be out… 

 

Harry looked to the left and saw it. 

 

Two gleaming eyes, crimson, staring out through the darkness. 

 

He swallowed. 

 

“Malfoy.” 

 

No response. 

 

“Malfoy.” 

 

“Yes, one second, I’m almost done…” 

 

“Malfoy. Get up.” 

 

“Last word, Potter, be patient…” 

 

“Malfoy,  _ get the bloody fuck up _ .” 

 

“Alright!” Malfoy stood, stuffing the parchment into his bag. “What’s all the fuss ab—” He froze, following Harry’s gaze. “Oh.” 

 

The Church Grim crept out of the darkness. It was, as Malfoy had described, a black dog. Almost as tall as Harry, it loomed over the graves, protective in its stance. Muscle and bone showed where its flesh had rotted away; its jaws were free of fur and skin, yellowed teeth stained brown. It snarled, and the sound, low and guttural, seemed to start in its stomach and travel up through its chest and out of its mouth, until it filled the cemetery. Harry felt his bones vibrate as the sound washed over him. His fingers trembled. 

 

The Church Grim leapt. 

 

Harry ran. 

 

He stumbled blindly through the graveyard, dodging headstones, eyes fixed on the wall. His heartbeat pounded in his ears. Under it, he could just barely hear the sound of Malfoy’s footsteps behind him. Over it, he could hear the Church Grim. The wall was as far as it had looked, and farther. Harry ran and ran, his mind empty but for a blaring panic and the singular focus of getting to the wall. As he neared it, his hands stretched out, reaching, reaching—and met brick. Relief burned through the ice in his veins; he hauled himself up, pausing only for a split second at the top to glance back—

 

Malfoy wasn’t there. 

 

Harry froze, balanced atop the wall, and scanned the graveyard—there! Malfoy had fallen. He was on his back, struggling to sit up. The Church Grim couldn’t have been more than a meter away from him. Closer. 

 

Closer. 

 

Closer. 

 

Harry screamed,  _ “DRACO!”  _

 

Draco plunged a hand into his bag and flung something out, just as the Church Grim descended upon him. Harry heard the sound of glass shattering, and then a pungent smell filled the air, like dirty toilet and fish guts. The Church Grim reeled away, howling, its snout covered in pulsing green. Malfoy scrambled up and ran; Harry grabbed his hand as he reached the wall and pulled him up. Together, they toppled onto the other side. Safe. 

 

Harry lay on the ground for a long moment, breathing heavily. With much effort, he pushed himself up and leaned back against the wall. Malfoy mirrored his actions. They looked at each other. 

 

A beat passed, and another, and then they burst into laughter, breathy and loud and uncontrollable. Somewhere in the back of him mind, Harry registered that this was hysteria. He didn’t much care. 

 

There was a part of Harry that just couldn’t process the situation: that he was sitting here in the middle of the night, outside a church he had broken into and  _ stolen  _ from. That he was just  _ sitting _ with his heart pounding, having just escaped from certain death  _ again,  _ laughing hysterically with Draco Malfoy. Laughing with his archnemesis, or his rival, or his—friend. Maybe. 

 

All things considered, it was… well, near-death experiences aside… it wasn’t too bad. 

 

He could get used to this. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's song is Stories by Kuroishi Hitomi, for Code Geass. 
> 
> I FORGOT TO UPLOAD THIS YESTERDAY IM SORRY  
> I had two tests today and it totally slipped my mind ^-^; 
> 
>  
> 
> Anyway... Draco clearly went to the Prometheus school of running away from things.
> 
> also, quick poll: was Draco lying about Nessie, or was he telling the truth? (personally... I want to believe...) 
> 
> Next week: worms, stone skipping, and objectification.


	7. Reason

 

There are some things you can’t share without ending up liking each other, and narrowly evading the jaws of a magically-prejudiced hellbeast is one of them. 

 

It was like a dam had broken. Sure, they had had a truce, and, sure, Harry had managed to get along with Malfoy so far—but there had always been a hesitance, a niggling feeling at the back of his mind that Malfoy was bound to betray him eventually. Now, though, Harry felt his last inhibitions crumbling away. It was hard to look at Malfoy and still make himself see the hated rival of four years, after seeing him laugh like that and laughing with him. 

 

Laughter seemed to be the staple of that morning—a lazy morning compared to the others, thanks to Malfoy’s decision to take a taxi to the next sacrifice, no matter the destination. 

 

“I refuse to spend another  _ minute  _ in a public bus, Potter,” he had declared. “ _ I will not do it _ .” 

 

No alarms had been set, so Harry had woken with the sun, stretching idly and enjoying the feeling of a good night’s rest. After a moment, Malfoy had wandered out of the bathroom. They had looked at each other. 

 

And instantly burst out laughing. 

 

It had been another fifteen minutes and a cold shower before Harry could look at Draco without giving in to laughter. Now, they sat cross-legged on Malfoy’s bed, facing each other with the clue between them. 

 

Malfoy translated: “ _ Where coin-masters quail. Where the mountain breathes. Where bluecaps nod their heads. There find the earth-eater prince. _ ” 

 

“Earth-eater again?” Harry shook his head in mock disappointment. “The person writing these was quite lazy with words, wasn’t he?”

 

Malfoy arched an eyebrow. “Like you could do better, Potter. I’ve heard your Charms presentations.”

 

“That’s fair.”

 

They returned to the clue. 

 

Harry said, “The coin-masters of the Wizarding world are goblins, aren’t they?” 

 

“You could say that,” Malfoy mused. His eyes lit up. “And where they quail—that must be Cheddar Gorge!” 

 

“Goblins are afraid of cheese?”

 

“Very funny, but no. Cheddar Gorge is a gorge in Cheddar, Somerset. During the goblin uprisings, scores of goblin war prisoners were taken there by wizards and executed, as an example to the others.” 

 

“Oh. That’s  _ awful _ .” 

 

“Yes.” Malfoy narrowed his eyes. “And you should know about it already. We did a whole essay on it for History of Magic, remember?” 

 

“Er…” Harry shrugged and smiled. “Hermione writes most of my essays…” 

 

Malfoy, for his part, didn’t seem surprised. He only fixed Harry with a judgemental frown, and returned to the clue. “Right, so, Cheddar Gorge. But where does the mountain breathe?”    
  
“Through its mouth?” Harry suggested, half serious. Then he grinned. “The mouth of a cave! The next clue is in a cave!” 

 

“And the bluecaps—I was thinking bluecaps as in the magical beast, but perhaps he only means bluebells. If we find a cave with bluebells growing outside it, that could be the location.” 

 

“Now there’s only the earth-eater prince…” Harry frowned. “A worm prince?” 

 

“No,” Malfoy said slowly. “Not worm.  _ Lindwyrm _ .” He leaned back and grabbed the bag from the nightstand, rummaging inside until he produced a book. “There’s this old Norwegian folktale called ‘Prince Lindworm’... here, look at this picture. It’s a fascinating tale, especially when you consider that it may be based on real events.” 

 

“What’s the story?” 

 

[ “It goes like this.” ](https://www.worldoftales.com/European_folktales/Norwegian_folktale_3.html) Malfoy closed the book and cleared his throat. “Once, a long time ago, there was a queen who desperately wanted a child—but she couldn’t have one. So she sought out a witch. The witch gave her two roses, one white and one red, and told her to eat the red one for a boy or the white one for a girl. The only instruction the witch gave was that the queen  _ must not  _ eat both roses. Just the one. 

 

“So the queen went home and ate the white rose, but it tasted so sweet that she completely forgot the witch’s warning, and ate the red one, too. Eventually, the queen’s pregnancy came to term, and she gave birth not to one baby, but to two. One was beautiful and fair, a perfect baby boy. But the other, her  _ firstborn _ , was not a man at all, but a serpent. A  _ lindwyrm _ . The queen was horrified, but the wyrm slithered away, disappearing, and she soon forgot all about it.

 

“Many years passed, and the time came for the crown prince to take a bride. But on the day he left to find one, he was stopped at the crossroads by a fully grown lindwyrm. The wyrm declared that he was the firstborn of the queen, and so he must be the first prince to be wedded. And so the prince returned with the wyrm, and the king and queen began to search for a bride for their firstborn.”

 

Harry tried to image marrying a lindwyrm. He couldn’t. 

 

Malfoy continued: “Eventually, a bride was found. The couple were wed… but the next morning, the servants of the castle entered their shared bedroom to find that the lindwyrm had eaten his bride! Still he insisted that he must have a bride before his brother. So, once again, a bride was found. And, once again, the lindwyrm ate her. And  _ still  _ he would not let the younger prince marry. A third bride was found. This girl had heard about the previous two wives, and she did not want to be eaten.” 

 

“I’d be concerned if she did,” Harry said. “On  _ multiple  _ levels.” 

 

Malfoy rolled his eyes and shushed him. “The girl went to the witch, and asked her what to do. And the witch told her that, on her wedding night, she must wear ten shifts the color of snow, and she must ask for a tub of milk and a tub of lye, and as many whips as could be given. The witch gave several more instructions, and the girl listened carefully, and then she went away to be wedded to the lindwyrm. 

 

“That night, the lindwyrm told the girl to shed her shift. But the girl refused, and demanded that the wyrm must first shed his skin. A layer for a layer, she said. The lindwyrm agreed. He shed a skin, and she removed one shift. Again, she repeated her demand, and again, until at last the lindwyrm had shed all of its skins, and the girl had removed all of her shifts. 

 

“Next, she dipped the whips in lye, and whipped the lindwyrm terribly. Then she bathed him in milk. Finally, she carried him to the bed and lay down with her arms around him. And in the morning, when she woke, it was not a lindwyrm that lay beside her—but a prince, more handsome than anyone had ever seen.” 

 

He finished the story and sat back, looking almost expectantly at Harry. Harry, unsure, clapped quietly and smiled. Draco smiled back. 

 

“I imagine that the third sacrifice is the skin of a lindwyrm,” he said. “We will probably have to reach a bargain with it, based on the story. A lindwyrm is a type of serpent, so I’m sure you can talk to it.” 

 

“Alright,” Harry said, getting up. “But if anyone has to  _ shed a shift _ , it’s going to be you, not me.” 

 

±±

 

They took a taxi to Cheddar. The journey was quiet, but it was the comfortable, companionate silence of two people at ease in each other’s company. After a time, Harry became aware of a soft melody. He tore his gaze from the hypnotic blur of trees and cars, and looked over at Malfoy. 

 

“Are you  _ humming _ ?” 

 

Malfoy jerked slightly. “No.” A pause. “Yes.” When Harry just looked him in silence, he sighed heavily and returned his gaze to the window. “...Father had business in Muggle London, once. He had to meet a wizard in hiding. Mother was away and Father didn’t trust the house elves to keep me safe—I was eight. He took me with him and left me in the hotel lobby. There was music playing—Edith Piaf. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever heard. So, while Father was gone, I charmed a bellboy to go out and buy me a record of her best songs. Then I wrote to ask Mother for my own gramophone. It’s been years with just that one record, but I’ve never gotten tired of her music.” 

 

“Edith Piaf? The name sounds familiar, but I don’t know her.” 

 

Harry was sure he heard a crack as Malfoy’s head whipped back around. “ _ What?  _ She’s only the greatest French singer in modern history!” 

 

“A  _ Muggle _ ?  _ You’re _ saying this?” 

 

“Music transcends blood,” Malfoy sniffed, as though it were perfectly obvious and normal for a Malfoy to say. “Her voice is—it’s angelic. Sweet at times, strong, sometimes raw… you can hear her  _ soul _ in her music,” he enthused. “Sometimes, when Mother and Father aren’t home, I stand in the ballroom—”

 

“You have a  _ ballroom? _ ” 

 

“—and just sing and sing her songs until my throat hurts. And, sometimes, when I’m certain they’ll be gone for a while longer, I sing  _ Milord _ . My favorite.” Draco’s eyes took on a dreamy quality. Harry felt himself smile. “It’s upbeat and fun, although the story is sort of sad, and it’s  _ loud _ . Somehow I always find myself dancing all around the Manor when I sing it… the house elves likely have so much blackmail on me by now, if they had the inclination to use it—” He cut off abruptly and flushed. “Anyway, Edith Piaf is brilliant. I’ll show you her music someday.” 

 

Harry hesitated, and then decided to try his luck. “Why not today? Will you sing something for me?” 

 

Malfoy snorted. “Absolutely not.” 

 

They each returned to looking out the windows. After a moment, Malfoy resumed humming. 

 

±±

 

It didn’t take long to find a guided tour up the gorge; the inn they checked into was plastered wall to wall in brochures. What took significantly longer was the actual hike, a fact that Malfoy made sure to point out at every juncture. 

 

Harry had tuned out after the seventeenth time hearing, “I swear to Merlin, Potter,” but he was pulled back to the sound of Malfoy’s voice when it suddenly appeared inches from his face. Harry blinked and stepped back. 

 

“What?” 

 

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “The  _ cave _ , Potter. We’re there.” 

 

Under the cover of the Invisibility Cloak, they slipped away from the group and approached the cave, a slit in the mountain curtained by bluebells. Thankfully, it was wider inside—but the lindwyrm was nowhere in sight. Malfoy suggested that it was out hunting, and that it would return soon. In the meantime, Harry started searching for the clue, running his hands along the walls, while Malfoy sat down and leaned against a rock. 

 

“Are you going to help?”

 

Malfoy considered, flicking a bit of dirt off his sleeve. “Hm. No.” 

 

“Figures.” 

 

“My feet are  _ tired _ , Potter, I need to  _ rest _ .” 

 

“Oh, of course. I’ll just do it myself, then.”

 

“Quite.” He shifted, paused, and smiled. “Or not. Looks like I’ve found our clue.” 

 

“What?!” 

 

Malfoy tossed a rock at Harry, who caught it and stared in disbelief at the runes carved around it. He tossed it back. “Right. You can translate it now.” 

 

“Oh, fine. But you’d better pull your weight, too. Honestly, it’s like I do all the work.” Harry bristled and opened his mouth to protest, but Malfoy continued, his eyes lighting up. “I know! Tell me a Muggle story. You were supposed to teach me about Muggles, weren’t you?” 

 

Harry sat down across from him and sighed. “Alright, fine. Have you ever heard of Disney?” 

 

±±

 

“Malfoy, what the fuck, I can’t  _ believe  _ you’re on her side!” 

 

“Ursula was a misunderstood person, Potter! She did nothing wrong!” 

 

“She was  _ evil _ , she had a whole  _ song _ about it!” 

 

“Look, just because Princess Seashells signed a legal document  _ with her eyes closed _ —”

 

“I’m sorry, are you  _ victim blaming  _ the  _ little mermaid _ ? Malfoy, you’re honestly such a—” 

 

But Malfoy was not to learn what he was; at that moment, Harry was cut off by a surprised huff and a disgruntled question. 

 

_ “What are humansss doing in my cave?”  _

 

Harry and Malfoy scrambled to their feet, backing away from the creature before them. It was long and smooth, with two forelegs and scales of an off-white color. Its face was dragon-like, sporting long whiskers and dark, deep-set eyes. It was the lindwyrm, and it did not look impressed. 

 

They had, it seemed, inched closer together. Harry realized this as he felt Malfoy’s bony elbow dig into his side. Swallowing the pain, Harry cleared his throat and took a tentative step forward. 

 

_ “Sssorry… we ssseek a boon.”  _

 

The wyrm appeared to consider this. Its eyelids, translucent, slid sideways over its eyes and back. 

 

_ “What boon?” _

 

_ “Sssskin.”  _

 

_ “No.”  _ The wyrm slithered forward; Harry and Malfoy leapt apart to let it pass.  _ “That isss too great a requessst. Leave.”  _

 

_ “Wait!”  _ The wyrm paused.  _ “It hasss been fine before, hasss it not?”  _

 

_ “Of what do you ssspeak?”  _

 

Harry took a breath.  _ “Prince Lindwyrm.”  _

 

Slowly, the wyrm turned itself around. It took a good minute, during which Harry shuffled awkwardly on his feet. By his side, Malfoy was looking between Harry and the wyrm with a slight frown. 

 

The lindwyrm spoke:  _ “Princesssss, in my cassse. And there isss a difference.” _

 

_ “Difference?”  _

 

“ _ In the tale, there wassss equivalent exchange.” _

 

_ “A shift for a shift,” _ Harry recalled. 

 

The wyrm nodded.  _ “Exactly.”  _ Her whiskers suddenly twitched, and she looked about as thoughtful as a wyrm could.  _ “If you would be willing… we could come to a deal, I ssuppossse…”  _

 

_ “Deal?”  _

 

Was it possible for a wyrm to smirk? Harry had thought not, but he was beginning to reconsider. 

 

_ “A shift for a shift. A layer for a layer. Deal?”  _

 

_ “But I’ve only got one layer! I’ll be in my boxers!”  _

 

_ “It will make you uncomfortable, yessss?” _

 

_ “Yesss!”  _

 

_ “Good. Shedding ssskin iss very uncomfortable alssso.”  _

 

Harry looked at the wyrm. The wyrm looked at Harry. 

 

He sighed.  _ “Fine.”  _

 

_ “Both of you.”  _

 

_ “Why?” _

 

_ “You want two sskinsss, iss it not?”  _

 

_ “Oh. Oh—alright! Deal.”  _

 

_ “You firssst.”  _

 

“For the love of—”

 

“What is it?” Harry jumped at the sound of Malfoy’s voice. Oh, Godric, this was going to be a nightmare. 

 

“We’re being objectified by a worm.” 

 

“What?” 

 

“Prince Lindwyrm, remember? A layer for a layer.” When Malfoy only looked quizzically at him, Harry sighed again and pulled his T-shirt over his head. Understanding dawned on Malfoy’s face, and he began to cackle. 

 

“Yes! Merlin’s socks, this is too good! Oh, if only I’d brought a camera…” 

 

“You have to do it, too, you know!” That shut him up. Harry set his shirt, jeans, shoes, and socks in a pile and folded his arms. By his side, Malfoy was grumbling under his breath as he did the same.  _ “Alright, we fulfilled our end. Now you.”  _

 

_ “Very well.”  _

 

The wyrm gave a great shudder and began to move. It wasn’t any natural movement, a slight distortion as different parts of her body twitched in different directions. Harry shivered, wishing he could block out the noises the wyrm was making: tinny, whistling, intermingled with hisses. He looked away, but his eyes fell on Draco, who almost seemed to glow in the dim light of the cave and who looked just as mortified as Harry felt. Harry snapped his head back around, feeling his face heat, and clenched his eyes shut.

 

The struggle seemed to carry on for an age. Eventually, however, there were two lindwyrm skins resting on the cave floor—the wyrm had kept up her end of the bargain. Harry rolled the skins up and put them into the bag. Malfoy was already scrambling back into his clothes. 

 

The wyrm was still there when Harry finished putting his shoes on. She gave what could almost have been a chuckle, and then turned and slithered  into the darkness. 

 

_ “Goodbye, little Quesstersss. Good luck.”  _

 

±±

 

The journey back was silent and unremarkable; Harry imagined that the gorge was beautiful at this time of day, but, as his eyes were firmly planted on his shoes, he couldn’t quite tell. In tandem, they bypassed the inn, wandering onwards until they reached what looked like a reservoir. Malfoy came to an abrupt halt as they neared the stone steps leading into the water, kicked a rock, and scowled fiercely. 

 

“Well, that was unpleasant.” 

 

Harry bit his lip, then surrendered to the bubbling laugh. Draco looked over at him and cracked a grin, and it seemed that they were fine. 

 

They sat by the water. It would be sunset, soon, and Harry wanted to watch the light sink beneath the water. A duck drifted by, unimpressed by the pursuing drake. Harry watched them for a moment, and then his fingers brushed a rock and he set it before him. He found another and placed it atop the first rock, and soon his stack reached nearly a foot. 

 

Gradually, he became aware of Malfoy watching and imitating. After his fourth stack collapsed, Malfoy threw up his hands. “This is impossible! How are you  _ doing  _ that?” 

 

Harry grinned at him. “Whenever my aunt and uncle went out, they used to leave me with Mrs Figg, my neighbor. All she ever does is talk about her fourteen cats. I always used to go straight to her garden and stack rocks—the challenge kept my brain from withering away after hearing every five-hour account of Mr Paws’ latest escapade. Over the years, I just… got really good at it, I guess.” 

 

Malfoy whistled, but he shifted where he sat. He began a fifth attempt, and after a moment he murmured, “Those Muggles… they really never took you anywhere, did they?” 

 

Harry shrugged. “They hate magic.” He thought for a moment, and, looking at his rocks, said, “You might be a little bit right. About Muggles.” 

 

“ _ Really? _ ” 

 

“I’m not saying your lot is right about—anything, really. Because Muggle  _ aren’t  _ beneath us. They’re wonderful and most of them are kind. But… I think you’re right to be afraid of them. As a whole.” He waited, and, when the anticipated protest did not come, looked curiously at Malfoy. “You’re not denying being afraid.”  

 

Malfoy scoffed. “Do you know who you’re talking to, Potter? Of course I’m afraid. I’m a coward, it’s what I  _ do _ .”

 

“I don’t think you’re a coward,” Harry said, and was surprised to find that he meant it. “I used to, but not anymore. I think this whole Quest is very Gryffindor of you.” 

 

“How dare you, Potter. Although, I must say, I find your willingness to say  _ fuck everyone  _ and come with me quite pleasantly Slytherin.” 

 

“Well, the Sorting Hat  _ did  _ want to put me there.”

 

At the sound of a crash, Harry’s head jerked towards Malfoy. His fifth stack, which had been progressing nicely, was scattered on the ground. Malfoy was staring at him with wide, scandalized eyes. “What?!” 

 

“Yes.” 

 

“No! What happened?”

 

“I asked it not to.” 

 

_ “No! _ Why would you ever? We would have been in the same House!” His eyes were very bright. “Merlin’s tits, Harry, can you imagine? We could have done this sooner!” 

 

Could they? It was true that members of a House often had a healthy camaraderie… but his hostility towards Malfoy had begun before the Sorting. It was doubtful that a shared robe colour could have changed that. Even so, he wondered… 

 

“Hey, Malfoy, do you think we rushed into this?” 

 

Malfoy was still recovering. It was another moment before he seemed to register Harry’s question, but then he shook off the surprise and returned to normal. “Our relationship, you mean? I’m wounded. I thought we had something special.” 

 

“Our rivalry.”

 

“My comment still stands. Our years of mutual loathing and antagonism may have meant nothing to  _ you _ , Potter, but  _ I _ —”

 

“I like this better.” Once again, he was surprised at his own honesty: because the words  _ were  _ honest, even if the feelings were still confusing and only half-formed. 

 

“Sorry?” 

 

Harry grinned to himself. “Oh, don’t get me wrong. Arguing with you for four years has been its own sort of fun. But I think—this is even better.” 

 

“I—” Malfoy stared at him, ears pink in the dusk light, and then he coughed and looked away. “Let’s get to work on that clue, then, shall we?”

 

Harry stood as Malfoy produced his parchment, skipping rocks over the lake the way Hagrid had taught him in first year. Malfoy cleared his throat. 

 

“Right. Here it is.  _ Where poison-pixies roam. Where weeping maidens sing. Where black winds steal the air. There find the lake-demon’s grip. _ ” 

 

“Poison-pixies? Sounds like Doxies to me.” Harry’s rock skipped six times. He smiled. “Maybe the next sacrifice is in someone’s house?”

 

“No, Doxies used to live in forests, until wizards tried to exterminate them. A forest would tie in with the black winds, too—a careless potioneer in the medieval era unleashed a dark magic over a certain forest, creating a black cloud that poisoned everything in sight. What was it—Glassy-something? Glass fins?”  

 

“Glasfynydd? In Wales?” 

 

“That’s the one.” 

 

Harry was running out of rocks. He decided to make the last few count. “What about the sacrifice, then? What’s the lake-demon meant to be?” 

 

“Well, if it’s Wales… my guess would be the Afanc. It’s a Welsh lake monster. I’d imagine that its ‘grip’ is a reference to its claws.” 

 

“Stealing the claws of a monster.” Harry tossed his last rock. It skipped four and a half times. “Sounds fun.” 

 

Behind, Malfoy sighed. “Sounds like we’re going to Wales. Brilliant.” Harry heard a thump; Malfoy must have flung himself to the ground. “I’ll have to enter public transportation again, won’t I?” 

 

Harry laughed. 

 

“Don’t laugh! Do you know the kind of  _ things  _ that happen on public transport? You could be sitting in all sorts of unsavoury stuff, you know. It’s utterly unhygienic. How Muggles get by without the Floo, I shall never know—”

 

“Malfoy.” 

 

“What?”

 

“I meant it. I’m—I’m glad. That we’re friends now. Being your friend is—it’s fun.” 

 

When Harry turned around, Draco was on his back, looking the other way with an arm resting over his eyes. He didn’t say anything, but Harry saw him smile, so small and quick it could have been a trick of the light. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's song is "Reason" by YUZU, for the ending theme of Hunter x Hunter. 
> 
> I'm uploading a day early this week, since I'll be traveling for a bit without my laptop. 
> 
> also hOLY FUCK DO I LOVE EDITH PIAF   
> I know it's terribly self-insert-y of me to project that onto Draco, but I can see him singing her songs, somehow. It's just such a cute image. 
> 
> That's all from me today. I hope you enjoyed the chapter!
> 
> Next week: music, laughter, and accidental flirting?


	8. La Vie En Rose

 

It turned out that Malfoy had nothing against trains, in general. He just couldn’t stand buses, as evidenced by the speech he gave as they climbed onto the first bus and realized that there were no remaining seats—never mind that the journey was only thirty minutes. He droned his complaints into Harry’s ear and Harry, more amused than annoyed, ignored him. He looked at their fellow travellers instead, and quickly became aware of the number of eyes aimed unabashedly at Draco. Harry felt a surge of panic—but squashed it down quickly. These people were clearly Muggles, and could not have recognized either of them. They were staring for other reasons. 

 

Slowly, almost unconsciously, Harry shifted his position so that he came between Draco and the other passengers, shielding him from the obtrusive eyes. He received an elbow to the ribs for his efforts. 

 

“People are staring at you!” Harry told him. “It’s creepy!’’

 

Malfoy rolled his eyes and fixed him with a Look. “I’m  _ aware _ , Potter, and it’s  _ brilliant _ . Have you even  _ met _ me? This is all I  _ want _ .” 

 

“Oh.” 

 

“Besides,” Malfoy huffed, “there are more people looking at  _ you _ .” 

 

“Er… no. This is the Muggle world. They don’t know who I am.” 

 

The magnitude of the Look increased. “Merlin’s bootstraps, Potter, that isn’t the only—have you looked in a mirror, ever?”

 

“Er, yes? What’s that got to do with anything?”

 

“What am I going to do with you, Potter?”

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

 

“Hm, let’s put it this way. Without my immediate intervention, I suspect that you will never get a date.” 

 

Harry kicked Malfoy’s shoe. “What about you, then? If you’re so smooth, why not talk to one of the people staring at you? We’ve got time. In fact, we’ll make time just for this—I want to see just how long it takes for them to realize what a nightmare you are.”

 

Malfoy kicked him back. “That’s sweet of you, Potter, but no. No mere mortal can handle this.”

 

“I survived the killing curse,” Harry joked. “That probably makes me—not mortal.” 

 

“A passive victory. You could make an attempt.” 

 

The rest of the journey was tiring but uneventful, a blur of trains and buses and the rumble of both and Draco complaining intermittently about public transport and the slow shift from city to countryside and back and forth between them.

 

As their train crossed into Wales, Harry tapped the outline of a raindrop on the window. It slid down, tracing his reflection like a teardrop. 

 

“Hey, Malfoy, what did the riddle mean about weeping maidens?” 

 

Malfoy sighed and turned to Harry. “I suppose I should tell you the story of the Afanc.” 

 

“Is this going to be as long as the lindwyrm story?” 

 

Malfoy glared at him. “I’ll make it short, just for you.” 

 

“Brilliant. Thanks.” 

 

“To put it simply, a Welsh village called Betws-y-Coed was being terrorized by an Afanc, and they made a plan to capture it. They had a beautiful, brave, and pure-hearted maiden stand by the lake and sing, and her voice was so heavenly that the Afanc climbed all the way out of the lake and fell asleep at her feet. Then the men tied it up with special chains, so that it could cause no more trouble.” 

 

“Ah.” Harry frowned. “How are we supposed to catch this one? This seems a lot harder than the others.” 

 

Malfoy shrugged. “I don’t know. In any case, we can’t do anything today. It’ll take time to reach, and we’ll need to build our strength. We can come up with a plan tonight.” 

 

He turned back to the window. Harry did the same, resting his head against the glass as he searched for a solution. After a few minutes of fruitless thought, he became aware of a soft, sweet melody. Harry bolted upright. 

 

“I’ve got it!”  

 

The melody stopped abruptly. “Got what?”

 

“ _ You! _ You can sing to it!” 

 

“Excuse me?” 

 

“Just like the girl in the folktale! You sing to it until it falls asleep, and I’ll get the claws.” 

 

Malfoy stared at him, one eyebrow raised. “I told you they had a beautiful, brave, and pure-hearted maiden sing to the monster. You may not have noticed, but, aside from beautiful, I am  _ none of those things! _ ” 

 

“It’ll be fine. I’m sure the monster isn’t picky.” 

 

“No!” Malfoy insisted. “I will not do it! I will  _ not. _ ” 

 

But, by nightfall, he had not had any better ideas. As they set their bags down in the inn in Brecon, only a few hours’ trek away from the monster, Harry tried to comfort him. 

 

“Just trust me. When have my death-defying plans ever failed?” 

 

“That is not remotely reassuring.” He seemed to perk up, however, once they noticed that there was, once again, only one bed. It seemed that arguing made Draco feel the most at ease. 

 

(“You got the bed last time!” Harry protested. “It’s my turn!” 

 

“I’m sorry, but which one of us is risking our lives tomorrow based on the schemes of a Gryffindor madman?”

 

“My job is dangerous, too. I have to actually  _ touch  _ the monster.” 

 

“But  _ I  _ have to seduce it. Really, Potter, don’t you want my voice in tip-top condition tomorrow? That only comes from a good night’s rest.”)

 

In the end, they agreed to share. Harry lay on the edge, Malfoy on the other extreme, stiff and unable to fall asleep. It wasn’t just the awkwardness of their positioning; Malfoy kept moving, and every time he moved the bed shook and creaked. Harry pressed his pillow over his head, and then rolled over to face Malfoy. 

 

“Hey.” 

 

“What?”

 

“It’s going to be okay. If things go south, which they  _ won’t _ , I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise.” 

 

Draco muttered something that sounded suspiciously close to  _ bloody Gryffindor idiots _ , but he stopped moving after that, and Harry fell asleep in the quiet of the evening. 

 

±±

 

The next day wasn’t so peaceful. It hadn’t taken too long to reach the Glasfynydd—they’d received directions from a jogger who warned them, eyes twinkling, of the monster that supposedly lurked in the dead part of the forest, the one that had taken a chunk out of some daring teenagers only a few days ago—and the walk had been pleasant. 

 

Now, though, they were deep into the dead part of the forest, and Harry understood why the jogger had called it that. The plants were withered, all covered by a layer of black powder. Harry dusted a finger over a blackened leaf and it came away dark and stinging. Meanwhile, Malfoy was jittery, eyes shifting, complaining even more than usual. 

 

Their footsteps made strange, distorted crunches as they crept between the trees, searching for the lake. It was the only sound, aside from Malfoy’s hushed grievances. There were no birds in this part of the forest. 

 

“...And if you had stolen the blankets  _ one more time _ , Potter, I swear to Salazar I would have  _ murdered  _ you in your sleep—wait, look!” Draco grabbed Harry’s arm and pointed to a spot between two broken trees. “The lake!” 

 

They edged towards it, toe before heel, barely breathing for fear of waking the monster. The lake was sprawling and, like the rest of the forest, was dark and covered in a layer of black sludge. There was a log half in the water, covered in mud but for a small section where the bark had been shaved away. There appeared to be something written there. Harry was in possession of the satchel today; he brought out the parchment and a pencil he’d stolen two inns ago. Pressing the parchment to the log, he rubbed the pencil across it until several lines of runes appeared on the page. 

 

As he stepped back, a shadow passed over the lake. Harry nudged Malfoy. He was afraid to speak, but it seemed that his meaning was understood. Draco shot him a dirty look, and then  [ began to sing. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hegBt8dbfWM)

 

_ Des yeux qui font baisser les miens _

_ Un rire qui se perd sur sa bouche _

_ Voilà le portrait sans retouches _

_ De l'homme auquel j'appartiens _

 

The melody was slow and gentle; Harry supposed he must have expected Draco to have a good voice, or he wouldn’t have proposed this plan—but he was surprised at just how nice it was. Low and sweet, the sound washed Harry’s tension away, and he felt suddenly calm. 

 

_ Quand il me prend dans ses bras _

_ Il me parle tout bas _

_ Je vois la vie en rose _

 

Bubbles appeared on the surface, thick clumps of sludge expanding and bursting, splattering black over Harry’s shoes. The surface rose and Harry caught a glimpse of a dark, misshapen silhouette behind the water before the tension broke and the Afanc emerged. 

 

Not breaking his song, Draco gripped Harry’s hand, fingernails digging into his skin. Harry squeezed back, dazed yet still strangely calm. Distantly, he thought:  _ Godric’s left tit, this thing is horrifying to look at _ .

 

The Afanc heaved its bulk out of the lake, slow-moving. First came feet the size of tennis racquets, black water sliding off rough scales speckled with uncovered skin where the scales had broken away. Its claws, long and yellow, dug into the mud. They tapered off towards the end, but each was thick and stained and sharp enough to kill. 

 

_ Il me dit des mots d'amour _

_ Des mots de tous les jours _

_ Et ça me fait quelque chose _

 

Next came the head. Crocodilian jaws, torn where jagged teeth had broken the flesh. Four yellow eyes, small and slitted, half-lidded. Brown fur crowning its head, matted with mud and water. Harry began to lose circulation in his hand. 

 

The monster dragged itself fully onto the bank. It was hulky and muddy, the size of a couch, and its presence filled the air with a rancid scent. It lumbered forward, unsteady, and collapsed, eyes sliding shut. It was time. 

 

_ Il est entré dans mon cœur _

_ Une part de bonheur _

_ Dont je connais la cause _

 

Harry took a deep breath and moved towards the Afanc. Malfoy’s grip on his hand tightened, and then he let go. Harry lingered for a moment, and they looked at each other. Malfoy was shaking. He tilted his head almost imperceptibly towards the monster. Harry nodded. 

 

He edged sideways, eyes on the Afanc’s claws, and sank to his knees beside it. His hands hovered above its front feet, uncertain, before he remembered the steak knife in the satchel. It was not an impressive instrument, compared to the monster’s claws, but it would do the job. 

 

They needed two claws. 

 

_ C'est lui pour moi, moi pour lui dans la vie _

_ Il me l'a dit, l'a juré pour la vie _

 

_ Et dès que je l'aperçois _

_ Alors je sens en moi _

_ Mon cœur qui bat _

 

As Draco sang, the Afanc breathed—deep, shuddering breaths that caused its whole body to convulse. Harry flinched away from the stench. It was another moment before he could steel himself enough to proceed. 

 

_ You’ve fought off Voldemort _ , he scolded himself.  _ This is nothing!  _

 

Harry placed his left hand on the ground, palm up, and inched it towards the monster’s foot. His fingers brushed the claw; he took a deep breath, let it out, and slid his hand under it. With his right hand, he placed the knife on a point near the back end of the claw, and then raised it in the air, fingers trembling. Draco was still singing. Harry closed his eyes and allowed the song to fill his senses, cutting through the stench of the monster, its breaths, its twitching body. 

 

_ Des nuits d'amour à plus finir  _

_ Un grand bonheur qui prend sa place _

_ Des ennuis, des chagrins s'effacent _

_ Heureux, heureux à en mourir _

 

Harry’s eyes opened. He brought down the knife. 

 

_ Thuck!  _

 

The knife slammed into the claw and stuck, half-buried. The Afanc stirred, but did not wake. Harry let out a long breath and looked at Malfoy, whose fear was written plain in his wide eyes and furrowed brows. 

 

Right. Harry had promised to keep him safe. He would have to be careful. 

 

Harry’s fingers closed around the knife’s handle and he slid it forward, then back, moving his hand upwards as he did so. With every motion, the Afanc twitched and stirred, but still it did not wake. At last, the knife emerged. Harry raised it again—and swung it down hard, severing the claw. 

 

One down. 

 

_ Quand il me prend dans ses bras _

_ Il me parle tout bas _

_ Je vois la vie en rose _

 

Harry slid his hand under the second claw and prepared to strike. He felt oddly calm, soothed by the flowing music. Gripping the knife, he swung it down. Once again, the knife cut through half of the claw. Harry extracted it and prepared to take the final strike. 

 

Arm poised to swing, he paused as a thought occurred and looked at Draco. 

 

“Malfoy,” he whispered. “Did we make a plan for  _ after _ ?”

 

Malfoy’s face froze. For just a moment, his song faltered. 

 

The Afanc opened its eyes. 

 

Harry slammed the knife down, snatched up the claws, and scrambled to his feet. Stuffing all three items into the satchel, he ran at Malfoy as the Afanc lumbered to its feet, jaws splitting to produce a shrill scream that grinded against his bones. 

 

“RUN!” he cried, but Malfoy was rooted, staring in abject terror at the screaming monster. Harry grabbed his hand and pulled him through the trees. Malfoy staggered and then snapped out of his daze; in moments, he was sprinting ahead of Harry, who quickly found himself the one being tugged along. 

 

The Afanc was still screeching as it chased them. Gone was the heaviness of its limbs; it was fully awake now, and it moved with terrifying speed through the forest, knocking down small trees as it hurtled towards them. Malfoy weaved them between the trees, running in zig-zags. With his free hand, Harry fumbled with the satchel, searching, searching— _ there! _

 

Harry tugged sharply on Malfoy’s hand, yanking him back and pulling them both to the ground. Taking his hand from the bag, he flung the Invisibility Cloak over them and held his breath. 

 

The Afanc approached. Through the fabric, Harry watched as it stood still, sniffing the air. It moved towards them, sniffing roughly, so close Harry could almost feel the humidity of its breaths through the Cloak. It lingered for a moment longer, and then moved away. By his side, Draco let out a soft whimper. Harry pressed a hand over his mouth, eyes never leaving the monster. The Afanc had turned towards them again. Its head twitched, eyes roving, confused—and then it turned its back on them and lurched back through the trees. 

 

Harry removed his hand from Malfoy’s mouth. They flung off the Cloak and lay there on the dead ground, breathing heavily, too out of breath to go into any hysterics. In the near distance, Harry could hear a bird. 

 

He looked over at Draco and smiled. “You have a nice voice.” 

 

Malfoy’s face twitched, but he seemed too exhausted to manage a full scowl. “I don’t know  _ how  _ you’ve survived this long, Potter, but I am  _ never  _ listening to your plans again.”

 

“Will you sing again? When we go back?” 

 

“I will not.” 

 

±±

 

He did. 

 

They decided, once again, to forgo the clue translation until the next morning. Instead, they passed the evening eating takeout and trading stories and—after much wheedling and bribery—Harry convinced Malfoy to sing  _ just one song, Potter, and that is absolutely it. _

 

One song turned into two, which turned into three, and soon they had worked their way all the way up to  _ Milord _ . Draco hadn’t been joking; within moments of starting the song, he was dancing around the room, whirling Harry along with him, voice breaking now and again as he joined in Harry’s laughter. 

 

On the final, belting note of the song, they flung themselves backwards onto the bed, sinking gratefully into the soft pillows, breathless and exhausted and somehow still alive. 

 

“Well,” Harry said once he could breathe again, “goodnight, Draco.” 

 

“Mmhm.” 

  
Harry flicked the lights off, and fell asleep to the sound of Draco lazily humming  _ La Vie En Rose. _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's song is (naturally) La Vie En Rose by Edith Piaf
> 
> We're back on schedule! I really like this chapter, but I love the next sacrifice even more, so stay tuned for that. I'm just,,, so excited about it,,, 
> 
> Also, has anyone here read Mo Dao Zu Shi / Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation? Because I just read the novel (or at least, as much as is translated so far) and watched the Donghua and I am shoOK 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the chapter! 
> 
> Next week: flying, melancholy, and the whisper of an unidentifiable something


	9. Interlude: Another One Of Those Days

 

Draco lay awake long after Potter had fallen asleep, watching the moon drift idly between the stars. 

 

It had been a long time since he had fallen into bed like this, flushed and happy and tired in the best possible way. He could barely remember the last time. He must have been a child, then, perhaps the time he snuck out to go flying—yes, that would be it. He had been seven, or perhaps eight, at a point in his life when his parents were beginning to shape him into a Proper Young Wizard. Before, he had been allowed to run amok within the confines of the Manor, so long as he was well-behaved in public. Now, though, there was to be no more running about, getting into mischief. Proper Young Wizards, he was told, did not do handstands on their brooms three meters above the roof. 

 

He had known it was coming. He had known for years that his carefree days would soon come to an end. And he had made his peace with it. 

 

But flying. 

 

Oh, Merlin,  _ flying.  _

 

Draco missed it. He had Quidditch training twice a week, of course, but it wasn’t enough. He missed the cold sting of the air currents just a few meters higher than he was meant to go. He missed the exhilaration of all the swoops and loops and tricks his instructor never let him do. He missed the freedom of it. 

 

So, one night, he had snuck out. Taking his broom, he had rushed outside and launched himself into the air, flying in dives and spirals around the Manor grounds, laughing in bursts whenever the wind gave him back his breath. 

 

That night, after flying in through his bedroom window, he had thrown himself into bed and fallen asleep immediately, grinning from ear to ear. 

 

It had been just two days before he had snuck out again—only, this time, Father was waiting. He was not pleased. Draco’s cherished broom was Put Away, and his Quidditch training had been cancelled for two months to cement the lesson. He spent his evenings reading rather than flying—which wasn’t  _ bad _ , he  _ liked _ reading, and he had discovered some remarkable historical records in the Manor library that had sparked his interest… but he could never fall asleep quite as easily as he had that night. 

 

Now, things were different. He was happy—the happiest he’d been in years. The loosest he’d been, too, and the most tired. Yet, still, he couldn’t sleep. Still, something was missing. 

 

Harry was the reason for all of this, he knew. Without him, Draco would never have taken the leap to begin this Quest—without him, he wouldn’t be laughing and singing and having any of this fun. It was what he’d always wanted, wasn’t it? 

 

Friends, he’d said. Potter had called them  _ friends.  _ Four years of hostility, of envy, of agonizing over an unfulfilled handshake—and now they were friends. Finally, finally, they were friends, and Harry was  _ looking at him.  _

 

It was wonderful. 

 

It wasn’t  _ enough.  _

 

Draco couldn’t understand it. As wonderful as his new friendship with Potter made him feel, it also felt like he was living on borrowed time. He knew that he should enjoy it while it lasted, and yet he couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling that he wanted—something else. Something more.  _ Something.  _

 

He just wished he could figure out what. 

 

When sleep finally came, he dreamt of the Yule Ball, of green robes and green eyes, and smiles always pointed elsewhere. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's song is Another One Of Those Days by Cavetown
> 
>  
> 
> Another interlude! I should be revising for a bio test right now but good god if I have to read one more word about polypeptides I am going to lose it
> 
> In any case, I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Next week's chapter is possibly my favorite one :)
> 
> Also, also, if any of you happen to be fans of Mo Dao Zu Shi... I've caught up with the show and the novel translations and im. im dead inside. please come scream with me on Tumblr @anotherannoyingnerd. please
> 
>  
> 
> Next Week: camping, disagreements, and lots of sparkles


	10. For The Dancing And The Dreaming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fire faeries

 

 

Harry woke up slowly, limbs still sore from yesterday’s tension. He eased himself into sitting position, wincing as the sun hit his eye through a gap between the curtains. It felt warmer than usual, despite the fact that he appeared to have only one third of the blanket. Looking to his right, Harry blinked blearily at the mound beside him. For the first time since they’d been traveling together, he had woken before Draco. Inexplicably, a smile tugged at his lips. He swung himself out of bed and padded to the bathroom, leaving Draco to his extra minutes of sleep. 

 

When he returned, substantially more awake, Draco was sitting cross legged on the bed, parchment in his lap. A dark blue inkblot was forming on his lower lip, where he kept tapping the nib of the quill. Harry watched him in silence; engrossed in the runes, he exuded an aura of untouchability. Then his face lit up and he turned, beaming, to Harry. 

 

“Butterfly dragons!”

 

“What?” Harry went to sit beside him, peering over Draco’s shoulder at the half-translated runes. 

 

“The next sacrifice—look, this line references  _ the fire-faerie’s gift _ .” He gazed at Harry, eyes searching, and then huffed, still smiling. “Fire-faeries. The wizards of old discovered forest beings with butterfly wings, no larger than a teacup, but they were rarely seen and always came accompanied by tiny bursts of flame. They believed these beings to be faeries… it wasn’t until decades later that a witch decided to study them and discovered that they were a specie of pygmy dragon.” 

 

“What, like in D&D?” 

 

“What?”

 

“Never mind.” Harry pointed to the clue. “What’s the gift, then?”

 

“Their wing scales. It’s said that butterfly dragons will allow wizards to harvest their wing scales… but they’re incredibly shy. It’s not easy to gain their trust. We’ll have to camp out for a few days, really integrate into their environment.” There was a weight on his tone, an anchor barely managing to suppress the bubbling excitement he was trying to hide. “I—I’ve always wanted to try it, but Father would never—!” He cleared his throat and rolled up the parchment. “Anyway, we don’t need the rest of the clue. There’s only one place butterfly dragons can be found, and that’s Brechfa Forest.” 

 

“Not too far from here. We could take a cab.” 

 

“Yes.” 

 

Harry waited a moment. When Draco made no indication of movement, he nudged him. “You’ll need to get dressed first, unless you’re happy to step out in silk pajamas.” 

 

Draco jolted. “Right, yes, dressing. Of course.” He scrambled out of bed and rushed into the bathroom, then popped his head back out to call, “Make sure we’re ready to leave the second I get out!” 

 

“Will do!” 

 

Draco’s head disappeared inside, the door slamming behind him, and Harry could just make out the muffled cry of,  _ “Butterfly dragons!” _

 

Stifling a laugh, Harry left to find a cab. 

 

±±

 

Draco hadn’t stopped buzzing the entire journey, and he wasn’t showing any signs of stopping now. Harry decided to leave him be; it was unlikely that Draco would have anything productive to add to his current dilemma of which sleeping bags to choose. Besides, his excitement was infectious and Harry couldn’t bring himself to burst Draco’s happy bubble with questions about the logistics of their trip. In the end, he grabbed the two puffiest ones and placed them on the counter, beside the tent he didn’t know how to set up and the trail mix of nuts he didn’t like. 

 

This was going to be....  _ fine. _ Yes. He would make it fine. No problem. 

 

By mid-morning the following day, Harry was forced to consider that, just maybe, everything was not quite fine. The forest walk had been pleasant—they had followed dimly glowing runes carved into the trees by previous wizards, seemingly invisible to Muggles, and the clearing they had arrived at was sun-dappled and cozy. Draco hadn’t complained once about the hike, too busy chatting Harry’s right ear off with butterfly dragon trivia, and had even volunteered to help set up the tent. 

 

That was where things had gone—not fine. But not quite  _ wrong _ , no; Harry refused to say that any part of this journey that had Draco so boyishly excited could possibly have gone at all  _ wrong _ . Still, rubbing at the peg-shaped mark on his face—Draco sported an identical one—and gazing down at the forlorn lump of tent, it was hard not to wallow in despair. 

 

“Can’t we just use magic?” he whined. It was not something he had ever thought he would say to Draco Malfoy. “Just a teeny bit?” 

 

Draco, who had given up entirely and was slumped against a tree, rolled his eyes. “The Ministry can track even a  _ teeny bit _ , Potter. It’s too risky.” 

 

Harry flung up his hands. “Fine, then, fuck the tent. We can sleep in our sleeping bags. It doesn’t look cloudy, anyway.” When Draco made no protest, he kicked the jumbled pile of fabric, metal, and rope out of the clearing, resolving to stuff it into the bag later. By the time he sat down, leaning comfortably against a pale tree with a smooth trunk, Draco had already produced a book the size of a small stool out of the bag and propped it against his knees. He blew gently on the cover, sending up a cloud of dust, and settled back to read. Harry watched him for a count of three minutes and fourteen point five eight seconds before his mind began to stray and he looked at a stick laying beside him.

 

“Hey, Malfoy, toss me a knife.” 

 

Without lifting his eyes from his book, Draco arched an eyebrow. “It’s barely been five minutes, Potter. Don’t tell me the silence has driven you mad already?” He slid one hand into the bag as he spoke and tossed Harry a pocket knife. “Try not to murder me. It would be rather counterproductive to the Quest.” 

 

“No promises.” Draco looked up at this and they shared a grin. Harry bounced the closed knife back and forth between his hands, and then he picked up the stick and began carving notches into the wood. 

 

The sun drifted overhead, the shadows growing tall and thin and then short and squat. Harry shifted to larger bits of wood, graduating from random notches to simple carvings. It was peaceful. A little dull, perhaps, but this wasn’t the same as the boredom he felt at Privet Drive. There had been nothing to do at the Dursley’s, and here was much the same—yet, somehow, sitting out here, idly chipping at wood, the only sounds being the birds in the trees and the occasional sound of a page turning, and sometimes the briefest snippet of conversation between them… it wasn’t so bad. 

 

When night fell, they dug out the reserve biscuits from the bag and shared half a piece each. Somehow, it was filling. 

 

(“It’s like Lembas bread!” Harry exclaimed, and received a baffled frown. 

 

“ _ Limban  _ bread, actually, and it’s almost exclusive to the Wizarding elite. How do you know about it?”) 

 

The night was cold, colder than Harry had expected. They scooched their sleeping bags as close together as possible, and Harry tried to visualize heat currents flowing between them. It didn’t help. 

 

The next day was much the same. Harry got up—he couldn’t quite say  _ woke _ up; it had been far too cold for sleep—and headed straight back to his tree. Draco did the same, settling down with his seemingly limitless supply of origami paper while Harry got to work on another carving. Silence reigned, until Harry held up his vaguely shaped blob of wood and called out to Draco. 

 

“What does this look like to you?”   
  
Draco set down another perfectly shaped rose and squinted. “A spider?” 

 

“Hm.” Harry considered the blob. “I suppose I could see that…” A thought occurred, and he snickered. “I should leave it on Ron’s bed when we go back, see what happens.” 

 

He expected a laugh in response, but, when Draco made no sound, Harry looked over and realized that his companion had gone still. “Malfoy? What’s wrong?” 

 

“When  _ you _ go back, you mean.” 

 

Harry frowned. “When  _ we _ go back. You can’t mean to live on the streets forever.” 

 

Draco shifted, eyes on his shoes. “Not forever. I’ll keep pawning the gold—I’ll go to France.” 

 

“And then what? You’re  _ fifteen _ . What will you do?” 

 

For a long moment, Draco was silent. When he spoke, his voice was very soft. “I can’t go back. It doesn’t matter what else I do, but I can’t—I can’t go home anymore.” 

 

“Of course not.” Draco looked up. “I don’t mean go back  _ there _ , I mean—come back with  _ me _ . Dumbledore can protect you!” 

 

Draco snorted. “I trust Professor Dumbledore about half as far as Longbottom can throw him. And I expect he trusts me about the same.” 

 

“But if I ask him—if I tell him you’ve switched sides—”

 

“I haven’t  _ switched sides _ , Potter, don’t delude yourself. I’ve removed myself from the fight. I am not a part of this—I won’t be.” 

 

Harry looked at him, searching his face. Draco looked away. Harry said, “You are. You may not want to be, but you are a part of it. We all are. And, no matter what you say, you  _ have  _ switched sides. You know that. And my side will take you, if I ask them to. Dumbledore will.” 

 

“And your friends? Assuming I agree, assuming Dumbledore agrees—I highly doubt your friends will be so willing to accept me.” 

 

“For good reason, Malfoy. You can’t say they don’t have good reason. But if you just apologize, if you show them you’ve changed, I’m sure they’ll come around. Neither of them ever hated you as much as I did, and—well. Look at us.” He smiled, but Draco only scowled. 

 

“Don’t be naive. Granger  _ may  _ consider it—she’s always been the most reasonable of you lot—but Weasley certainly wouldn’t. Him and the whole Weasel brood—not that I much care for their approval anyway.”

 

Harry bristled. “Yes, they  _ would _ , and don’t call them that, because I  _ know _ you’re only doing it to annoy me. I’m only trying to help—” 

 

“I already told you once. I don’t  _ need  _ The Saviour’s assistance, thank you—”

 

“For god’s sake!” Harry threw up his hands, dropping the wood block. “Why are you so  _ difficult? _ ”

 

“Why are  _ you  _ so  _ stuck  _ on this?” 

 

“Because  _ I care about you _ , you wanker!”

 

Draco didn’t say anything. Harry stood and stomped out of the clearing, kicking the wood block as he went. 

 

_ Stupid, stubborn, insufferable,  _ stupid _ —!  _

 

He had reached a stream. Harry came to a stop and kicked a rock into it, creating a splash that soaked the ankles of his jeans. He heaved a sigh and sat down, watching the light play on the water. Gradually, his breaths deepened and his heartbeat slowed. 

 

Harry thought about what he had said.  _ Because I care about you.  _ It was true, oddly enough. That was surprising. Harry had long acknowledged the friendship budding between them—but he hadn’t quite realized until this moment just  _ how much _ he had come to care for Draco Malfoy. Now that it had hit him, Harry could feel it growing all the more—he  _ really  _ didn’t want to let go of this thing they had, didn’t want their time together to end now that they  _ finally _ understood each other. More than that, he didn’t want to live the rest of his life not knowing what had happened to Draco, if he was alright. He needed Draco to come back with him and be safe and  _ right here _ . 

 

It was a strange thought. He had been having a lot of those since starting this Quest. 

 

The light on the water turned pink, then gold, then orange. Harry watched the colors change. When the stream began to look more like a river of fire, he stood and retraced his steps back to camp. 

 

Draco was still sitting where Harry had left him, surrounded by green roses. As Harry stepped into the clearing, he looked up with wide eyes and opened his mouth, closed it, straightened up, leaned back again, and then held out a paper flower. 

 

A lily. 

 

Harry looked at the flower and at Draco, then sighed and took it. A look of relief flashed across Draco’s face, but he remained silent. Harry went over to his tree and sat down. The lily was cupped in his hands. He stared at it for a very long time. 

 

±±

 

The next day, they didn’t talk about it. Instead, Harry suggested that they go for a walk, down to the stream he had found the previous day, and Draco readily agreed. They wandered along the bank and arrived at a point where the stream widened almost into a river. The conversation drifted to Quidditch, and rapidly turned into bickering over who was the better player. 

 

“I,” Draco said, “have never lost against Hufflepuff  _ or  _ Ravenclaw.”

 

Harry bit back a comment about softies and nerds, instead choosing to argue, “But you always cheat!” 

 

Draco rolled his eyes, making what Harry had learned to interpret as his  _ you’re-so-naive-Potter  _ face. “That’s  _ part of the game _ , Potter. Knowing how to cheat without getting caught is a strategy, nay, an  _ art _ .” 

 

Harry huffed. “Well, you still always lose to me. How are we even having this conversation? You’ve  _ never  _ won against me!” 

 

“I could if I weren’t distracted!” 

 

“By  _ what _ ?” 

 

Draco stopped walking, and then resumed at a distinctly faster pace. “...Nothing.” 

 

This was interesting. “Tell me.” 

 

“No.”

 

“Tell me! Is it a person?” 

 

“Shut up!” 

 

“Godric, is it really?! Malfoy—”

 

Draco pushed him into the river. Harry gasped as the cold hit and kicked back to the surface, blinking rapidly. Draco, stood on the bank, began to laugh. Harry surged forward, using a rock and the water to propel himself, and leapt up, closing a fist around Draco’s shirt. As he fell back into the water, Draco fell with him, letting out a squawk of dismay. 

 

“Rude!” Draco cried when he resurfaced. 

 

Harry only cackled, and received a splash to the face. He reciprocated the gesture, and soon they were embroiled in a splash battle. After losing his footing and falling under the water for the fourth time, Harry threw up his hands. 

 

“Okay! Okay, stop, stop!” 

 

Draco stopped immediately, water still cupped in his hands, and a grin lit up his face. “Ha! Slytherin victory!” 

Harry climbed out of the river, squeezing water out of his shirt. “Yeah, yeah, enjoy it all you want. This is the only time you’ll ever be able to say it, after all.” 

 

There was a beat of silence. Harry could see in Draco’s eyes what he had been about to say—that, yes, it would be the last time, because Draco wasn’t ever intending to return. But he hadn’t said it, and Harry didn’t want to have that argument again. Thankfully, Draco’s expression unfroze and he leapt out of the lake and took off running. 

 

“Race you!” he called over his shoulder. 

 

“Cheat!” Harry yelled, running after him. 

 

±±

 

They spent the rest of the day shivering, even after having changed their clothes. Draco returned to his origami, and Harry to his carvings. By the end of the day, he was able to carve a piece of wood that could almost have passed for a dog. It had four distinct legs, at least. 

 

At night, as they lay with their sleeping bags pressed together, Harry whispered into the darkness. 

 

“Draco?” 

 

Sleepily: “Yeah?” 

 

“I know… I know that it’s your choice, what you do. I can’t choose for you, I can’t force you to change your mind. But I just wanted you to know that… I want you to come back. With me. I  _ really  _ want you to stay. That’s all.” 

 

Draco didn’t respond, but that was better than arguing. They fell asleep in the silence. 

 

When Harry woke the following morning, Draco was gone. 

 

Panic flooded his senses; he wriggled and scrambled until he had found his way out of the sleeping bag and felt blindly along the ground until he found his glasses. Placing them onto his face, he sprang up, turned around—and saw him. 

 

It was mid-morning. Thin fingers of early sunlight stretched idly from the heavens, reaching through the trees to brush against Draco’s hair. He was standing a little away from the clearing, head tilted up, lips curled in the softest smile Harry had seen on him. One hand was raised level with his face—Harry tore his gaze from Draco’s face and saw, for the first time, the cloud of glimmering wings surrounding him. One set of rich purple wings had broken away from the others; Harry could make out the shape of the tiny dragon as it lowered itself onto Draco’s outstretched palm. Draco’s eyes slid from the dragon to Harry, his smile broadening into something open and bright, and all Harry could think was  _ beautiful _ . 

 

Stepping back (when had he moved closer?) he fumbled in the sleeping bags for the satchel, and brought out a pair of glass vials. With those in hand, he cautiously approached Draco and his dragons. They hovered around him as he came to a stop beside Draco, shedding glitter into his hair and perching on his shoulders. Harry’s breaths caught in his throat, the air disappearing from his lungs. It seemed impossible for anything to be so sweet and lovely. 

 

Draco nudged him gently. Harry gave him the vials and watched as Draco slowly rubbed each along the wings of the dragon in his palm. Barely-visible pieces of shimmering scale fell into the vials. Draco closed them and slid them into his pockets. He lowered himself to the ground; Harry and the dragons followed. On the floor, Harry could see runes forming where the glitter had fallen, but neither he nor Draco paid them any mind. 

 

They sat together for what felt like forever and no time at all, surrounded by fire-faeries, and it felt like everything in the world was okay. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's song is For The Dancing And The Dreaming, sung by Gerard Butler and Mary Jane Wells, for How To Train Your Dragon 2. 
> 
> this chapter is so cheesy sfdgshdcsrj but I love it so much, it's definitely my favorite chapter out of all of them. I mean, butterfly dragons, man. BUTTERFLY. DRAGONS. 
> 
>  
> 
> Also heyyyy guess who's taking the ACT on Saturday? in unrelated news gUESS WHO'S CRAVING DEATH— 
> 
>  
> 
> Next week: the unexpected return of a deadly foe


	11. Aankhon Mein Teri

 

 

Harry packed slowly while Draco translated the shimmering runes on the ground, savoring the morning sunlight as he rolled up the sleeping bags and gathered a few quality blocks of wood (that dog had been promising, and he wasn’t going to give up just because they were leaving). Casting one last, lingering look at the space just beyond the clearing, where the butterfly dragons had appeared, Harry turned and set off down the path. Draco followed, reading the clue aloud as they walked. 

 

“ _ Where eagles reign. Where sisters scream their sorrow. Where mansions of stone endure. There find the proud gryff’s flight. _ ” He hummed to himself. “Eagles reign… that sounds like a mountain, don’t you think?” 

 

“Hmm.” 

 

“Eagles reign… could it be… land of the eagles… oh! Eyri! That would be Snowdonia, I think!”   
  
“Hm.” 

 

“Screaming sisters—those must be banshees. They’re known to favor the Rhinogydd mountains, as far as I’m aware. And the mansions of stone… I’m sure we can find a peak with lots of rock formations once we get there, and that would likely be it…” 

 

Harry was only half listening as Draco puzzled this out. His mind had caught on the final piece of the clue, and he was feeling increasingly smug. “Hey, Malfoy,” he said, “what creature do we know very well that is part of the Griffin family and is known for being proud?”

 

“What do you—?” Draco stopped and paled. “No. Absolutely fucking not.” 

 

“Yes.” A grin spread across Harry’s face and he nudged Draco. “You’re doing this one. I would assume that we need to collect a hippogriff’s feathers, and you’re going to do it.” He gave Draco a sweet smile. “Consider it atonement.” 

 

“I will consider it  _ sadism _ .” He huffed and stomped past Harry. “We’re taking a cab.” 

 

Harry rushed to catch up. “But we’re out of money! I spent it all on that tent. And I didn’t see any pawn shops in the town…” 

 

Draco stopped so abruptly that Harry almost ran into him. Tilting his head to glance over his shoulder, he shot Harry a wicked grin. “Watch and learn, my would-be Slytherin apprentice. I’m going to give you an education.” 

 

He set off down the path. Unable to suppress a shiver, Harry followed. 

 

±±

 

They were sat on a bench in the town square, watching cabs come and go. Draco had been silent for the past fifteen minutes, eyes narrowed and roving. Harry shifted beside him, absently patting his own jeans and studying the muddied state of his shoelaces. Draco remained quiet, doing—whatever he was doing. He had been remarkably uncooperative in explaining what was going on, for someone who claimed to be  _ educating  _ Harry. Harry wondered if he had picked it up from Snape. 

 

Suddenly, Draco sat up straight. Leaning towards Harry, he stared dead ahead and whispered, “That woman, in the pink shirt. Who does she remind you of?”

 

Harry squinted. “Er… I don’t know?” She was leaning against a cab, smiling at a dog being walked a few paces away. Her hair was brown and frizzy, brushing her shoulders, and she had a matronly figure. “I guess, maybe, a combination of Hermione and Mrs Weasley?”

 

Draco snapped his fingers and Harry jumped, startled. “Exactly! Now, stay behind me and look at the floor. Don’t say a word. Try to look lost and emotionally unstable.”

 

“What?”

 

Draco didn’t respond. He sprang up from the bench and strode towards the woman. As they walked, Harry watched Draco’s shoulders droop, his head lowering so that he was looking at his shoes, wrists held close together as both hands tugged at the sleeves of his shirt. 

 

_ What in Godric’s name…?  _

 

The lady looked up as they approached, turning her brightness on them. 

 

“Hello, boys! What can I do for you?” 

 

Harry, as instructed, kept his head down—but he lifted his eyes as far as he dared, curious. 

 

Draco had half-lifted his head, meeting the woman’s eyes. Softly: “We need a ride.” 

 

A frown mixed with the woman’s smile. “That  _ is _ what I’m here for.”

 

Draco hesitated, fingers tightening on his sleeve. “We don’t… have any money.” 

 

“Oh. Well, I’m sorry, but I—” 

 

“We-ran-away,” Draco blurted, all in a rush. 

 

“Oh…” the woman’s smile faded. “I don’t… are you alright? Do you need to go home?” 

 

_ “No!”  _  Harry’s head snapped up at the cry, instructions forgotten, and he was surprised at the fear in Draco’s face. Draco seemed to recover quickly, taking a step back and lowering his head again so that his hair fell over his eyes. “We can’t go back. We’re… it’s… our parents don’t…” He bit his lip, then took a deep breath and looked at the woman, aiming his eyes slightly to the left of her nose. “My parents wouldn’t accept— _ us. _ His neither. They said… I… they said…” His voice wavered and he shook his head, closing his eyes and taking another long, shaky breath.

 

Harry  stared at him.  _ What. What the fuck.  _

 

“Oh, sweetheart, I understand,” the woman cried, somehow sounding more distressed than Draco. “I—do you need me to call someone? I could—” 

 

“No, it’s—I know someone. Near Snowdonia. She could take us both in… just for a little while. Just until…” He trailed off and shrugged. “I don’t know. But it’s my—our—only hope right now.” 

 

The woman sniffled and patted the hood of the cab. “Don’t you worry about a thing, boys. I can get you to Snowdonia, free of charge. Just hop in!” 

 

Draco’s face lit up. “Really? Oh, thank you so much, Ma’am!” 

 

“No, it’s no problem. It’s only an hour’s drive, in any case.” She crossed around the car and climbed in. Draco opened the door, winked at Harry, and slid inside. 

 

±±

 

Ten minutes later, Harry just couldn’t keep quiet anymore. Leaning across the seat, he whispered to Draco, “That was so fucked up.” 

 

Draco arched an eyebrow at him. His elbow was resting against the window ledge, cheek propped against his wrist. “It’s true. I  _ have _ run away from my disapproving family.” 

 

“Yes, but… that’s not…” Harry floundered, searching for the words. “You—you know what she thinks!” 

 

Draco shrugged, returning his attention to the window. “Yes, and that’s true, as well. The only sort-of lie is that I haven’t told my parents—but, honestly, the whole ‘not becoming a servant of the Dark Lord’ thing is probably the bigger issue here.” 

 

“But—wait.” Harry sat back, processing this. “Wait. Wait, you’re—”

 

“Yes. Problem?” He spoke nonchalantly, facing away, but Harry noticed a tension in his jaw and hurried to make himself clear. 

 

“No, of course not! I just—I never knew.” 

 

This made Draco smile. “Honestly, Potter. Why would you?” He glanced at Harry and then back at the window. “This, of course, means that we’re only  _ really  _ lying if you’re not. So this is on you. Unless you are. Are you?” 

 

Harry blinked. “Er. I don’t know? I don’t think I’m one or the other, honestly.”

 

“Hm.” Draco closed his eyes and leaned fully against the window, and didn’t say another word.

 

Harry brought out his wood block and began to carve. As they crossed into Snowdonia, he held up the finished product and smiled. It vaguely resembled a human. Sort of. He nudged Draco. 

 

“Look, it’s you. Do you like him?” 

 

Draco took the carving cautiously, an unreadable expression on his face, and then pushed it back into Harry’s hands and looked away. “It’s alright.” 

 

Harry beamed.

 

±±

 

The following day, armed with replenished funds, a brochure featuring the most promising peak (Foel Penolau, it was called), and a freshly-brewed vial of Pepper-Up Potion each, they headed up the mountain. Harry had a new spring in his step, courtesy of the potion, and Draco—well, he was about as athletic as ever, but he had stopped complaining. For a bit. 

 

And  _ hoo boy  _ did he complain. The second the potion wore off, Draco began whining about it was so  _ tiring _ , so far  _ up _ , his  _ feet _ hurt… 

 

He had a point, Harry thought, to be fair. It  _ was _ tiring; Harry’s chest felt constricted and slightly burnt, and he wondered where  _ exactly  _ all the oxygen he was inhaling was actually going. He was unsure just how his legs were continuing to move, and terrified to contemplate the question lest it cause his legs to stop; he was quite certain that if he ever did stop he would not be able to start again. And through it all flowed Draco’s constant stream of whinging. Harry had always hated Draco’s melodramatic nature, back at school, but now he found himself grinning as he listened, tossing back teasing quips whenever he could gather enough breath, cheered on by every dirty look he received in return. 

 

The hike continued. Right at the moment when Harry thought he might keel over and perish, Draco let out a strangled shriek and clutched him arm. 

 

“Do you feel that?” he gasped (quite literally; he had had to run a little to catch up with Harry). “The magic?” 

 

Harry closed his eyes. It was true; now that he thought about it, he could feel a shift in the quality of the air. There was magic here—some sort of natural magic, not any wizard’s spell—perhaps only a few paces away. Opening his eyes, he stretched a hand forward, in the direction of the strange rock formations just ahead. The air rippled against his fingers; Harry saw a shimmering bubble appear around the rocks and disappear, and he saw what had been hidden from Muggle eyes. 

 

There were nests everywhere, each about the size of car. Harry walked forward, moving cautiously between the nests. Draco, who appeared to have run a quick cost-benefit analysis in his mind and deemed his pride not worth the possibility of injury, was still holding onto Harry’s arm. 

 

It was not long before they came across a young Hippogriff, who froze in place and stared at them with sharp golden eyes. Draco immediately stiffened and backed away, tugging Harry with him, but Harry shoved him forward, sending him stumbling toward the hippogriff. 

 

_ “Bow!” _ he hissed. 

 

Draco bowed, his head nearly touching the ground. He was quivering, and Harry felt a little bad, but not really. 

 

There wasn’t a sound; Draco appeared to have made his breaths entirely silent, if he was breathing at all. Harry, for one, had stopped breathing altogether. The hippogriff was still, poised, eyes scrutinizing. 

 

Harry closed his eyes. There was the rustle of feathers. He opened them. 

 

The hippogriff had bowed. 

 

Glacially slow, Draco rose. 

 

Harry whispered, “Go pet him!” 

 

_ “Are you mad?!”  _

 

“Just do it!” 

 

Draco shuddered, but after a moment his spine went ramrod straight and he took a step towards the hippogriff. When it made no response other than to lift its head, Draco approached it and, with trembling fingers, hovered a hand just above its beak. 

 

The hippogriff considered this, and then butted its head against Draco’s palm. Draco visibly flinched, but the hippogriff did nothing more. Harry watched as Draco’s shoulders dropped, hand settling against the creature’s feathers. He began to stroke its head, and let out a huff of laughter. 

 

Harry clapped softly, prompting Draco to shoot him a grin over his shoulder. 

 

Then the hippogriff moved. Draco leapt back as it dropped to its knees, looking up at him with the cockiest expression Harry had ever seen on a bird. His eyes widened. 

 

“He’s going to let you ride him!” 

 

Draco paled. “What? Absolutely not!” 

 

“It’s the safest way to get his feathers! Just hop on.” 

 

“Safe?! How is riding a hippogriff  _ safe _ ?” 

 

“I’ve done it.”

 

“You’ve survived the  _ death curse _ , your argument is invalid.” 

 

“And  _ you _ sang to a lake monster. Willingly! Just  _ get on _ .” 

 

Draco glowered at him, be he reluctantly swung a leg over the hippogriff’s back and sat down. He placed his hands on its neck and resumed glowering at Harry. 

 

“If I die from this, Potter, I shall—”

 

But Harry was never to know what Draco would do; at that moment, the hippogriff launched into the air, ashy wings brushing the sun as it swerved away. Harry squinted after them for a moment, but, as Draco’s continuous shriek faded into the distance, he began searching for the clue. 

 

Gleefully, he thought:  _ Godric’s winter fleece, I can’t wait to tell Hagrid about this!  _

 

He had just finished copying down the clue from a rock laying in one of the nests when the hippogriff returned. Draco was no longer screaming. The hippogriff’s wings blotted out the sun as it descended, the force of its wings producing a gust of wind that nearly blew Harry’s glasses off. He held onto them and peered at it as Draco leapt off, shaken and pale and clutching two grey feathers in his right hand. He was flushed from the adrenalin and the cool air, his hair a windswept mess, but he was smiling almost shyly at Harry. He rushed forward, stopped, and then hurried back and gave the hippogriff one final stroke. The giant bird nodded at him and trotted away. Draco spun around, and the sky was reflected in his eyes. 

 

The moment he came within reach, Harry bounded forward and flung his arms around him. Draco froze, awkward, before his arms slowly came up and he returned the hug. 

  
Harry laughed into his ear, “I’m so  _ proud _ of you,” and held him closer.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's song is Aankhon Mein Teri, by KK, for Om Shanti Om. 
> 
> Apologies for the late chapter; it was my birthday yesterday and I completely forgot to update. 
> 
> I actually wrote most of this in my Global Politics class, so that's a thing. 
> 
>  
> 
> A belated HAPPY HALLOWEEN to everyone!! It's my favorite holiday, for obvious reasons. 
> 
>  
> 
> Anyway, that's all for this chapter. 
> 
> Next week: a revelation, and probably a lot of frustration >:)


	12. Interlude: Can't Help Falling In Love

 

 _Oh,_ Draco thought as Harry pulled away, smiling so so bright. _That’s what this feeling is._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's song is Can't Help Falling In Love, and personally I particularly like the Haley Reinhart cover. 
> 
>  
> 
> Okay, okay, this was rude of me - only one sentence for this entire week. I _could have posted this along with the previous one. In my defense, I wanted this fic to last just a little bit longer... the next chapter is the last, and then there's only the epilogue, and it's over!_
> 
>  
> 
> _On that note, a preview of next week: dragons, wishes, and certainty within uncertainty_


	13. Stand By Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> IT'S ALMOST OVER AHHH

 

 

Draco was oddly subdued on the way down, not even uttering a single indignant comment when he slid on the loose rocks and nearly took a tumble down the mountain (Harry caught him at the last second, but still). When they checked into the inn, Draco immediately got to work on the clue, retreating into a personal bubble of runes and ink. 

 

Harry had never imagined a day would come when he would  _ miss  _ Draco’s endless chatter. It was pathetic, really, but he could barely keep the relieved grin off his face when Draco ushered him over for dinner, clue in hand. 

 

“Here it is,” he said, and gave Harry an odd look. Harry schooled his face back into neutral and nodded. Draco shrugged at him and read: “ _ Where the stone dragon sleeps. Where land and sky are one. Where heartstrings lead the way. There find what you seek. _ ” 

 

“This is it, isn’t it? There find what you seek. This clue is leading us straight to The Well!” 

 

Draco’s brows furrowed and he shook his head at the paper. “I suppose so…” 

 

“Stone dragon… stone dragon… oh!” Harry snapped his fingers. “I’ve heard of this one! The mysterious stone dragon that appeared in the Glyderau mountains overnight, hundreds of years ago! That’s in Snowdonia, too, just a bit north of here. The peak was—what was it? Foe-something?  Foel-goff?” 

 

“We can ask around.” He tapped the third line. “Heartstrings lead the way. Our  _ hearts _ will lead us to it… there must be some sort of magic there leading questers to the dragon. But that’s…” His frown deepened. 

 

Harry nudged him and grinned. “Well, that makes it easier.” 

 

“Too easy. It can’t be this simple at the very end. No, the final sacrifice must be big. A  _ real  _ sacrifice.” 

 

It was an ominous thought. Draco left Harry with it, going to bed almost immediately after dinner with his face to the wall. Harry climbed into the second bed and counted the spots on the ceiling. Sleep eluded him even as the day’s exhaustion hit. He wanted to whisper to Draco, but something—some unknown anxiety or sudden shyness—held his mouth closed. It was unreasonable, he knew, to miss Draco this much. It was only a lack of conversation, and that, too, only for a few hours yet. And the fact that they were in separate beds for the first time in a few days. Harry found himself missing the feeling of solid warmth beside him almost as much as he missed the muttered gripes that sometimes wafted over from the neighboring pillow. 

 

He pulled his pillow out from under his head and pressed it over his face, imploring his brain to shut up and go to sleep. In response, his brain conjured an image of Draco in the mid-morning sunlight, surrounded by butterfly dragons. Draco standing on the bed, singing and laughing. Draco returning from the flight, wind-ruffled and smiling so sweetly. 

 

Lowering the pillow from his face, Harry allowed himself to smile at these images, turning his head to study Draco’s vague silhouette. He kept looking until his eyes slid closed, and sleep wandered by at last. 

 

±±

 

The peak turned out to be called Foel-goch, and the mountain it was on was vast and green. Everywhere Harry looked, there seemed to be an endless carpet of grass against the backdrop of mountains and clouds. It was beautiful, but not quite as much as the sound of Draco’s complaining. Midway through the hike, just as Harry had been about ready to faceplant into the ground and become one with the green, Draco had begun speaking to him again, and the simple fact of that had been enough to keep him upright and moving. Still, they had been walking for a long time, and even the magical power of friendship was beginning to falter. 

 

“Wait!” Harry stopped and turned as Draco cut off his current impassioned gripe with a sudden cry. “Do you feel that?” 

 

Harry frowned. “Feel what?” 

 

“That.” 

 

“Very helpful, Malfoy. You—” He stopped. “...Yes. Yes, I feel it.” 

 

It was like something, some fundamental longing, had closed its fingers like chains around his heart, and was pulling him towards the next peak. He looked at Draco. Draco nodded. In silence, together, they started up the peak. All complaints, all pain, all sensation fell away as they walked, leaving nothing but a vague warmth, and that deep, intense yearning. On and on they walked, one foot and then the other and repeat, not noticing as the air around them grew colder, until at last they came to the stone dragon. 

 

It was curled just in front of the cliff face, its head alone already taller than Harry. It was grey, naturally, but there were patches of green and orange where mosses and lichen had begun to sprout, and weeds hung down from between its jaws. As they approached, it lifted its head placidly, seemingly regarding them through those blank, stone eyes. Where its head had been, there was an opening in the rocks, and several lines of runes on the ground. 

 

Draco translated: 

 

_ Dear traveler, you have come far.  _

_ Yet you have still far to go. _

 

_ To gain, dear traveler, you must give. _

_ Each of six sacrifices you must throw. _

 

_ The last, my friend, you must speak aloud.  _

_ And state your name to me. _

 

_ Only when you bare your heart.  _

_ Will you be able to see. _

 

Harry nodded, affecting an approving tone. “He finally learned how to rhyme!” 

 

To his concern, Draco didn’t even roll his eyes. He was still on his knees, frowning down at the runes. “So, we have to throw in the sacrifices, state our name, and then… what?”

 

“Isn’t it obvious? We have to bare our hearts to the Well. We have to tell it a secret.”

 

Draco stood and deadpanned, “The Wishing Well, a magic most ancient and mystical, is a fucking gossip. You heard it here first.” But he was still frowning as they entered the slit in the cliff face. 

 

Harry wondered if Draco already knew what secret to tell, and if he was afraid of it. Harry wasn’t afraid, but only because he hadn’t the slightest idea what secret he could use. There didn’t seem to be anything big enough to constitute a sacrifice. Sure, there was his harbored bitterness towards being the Chosen One—but he had already vented that to Draco, and the weight had lifted from his shoulders and hadn’t returned since they’d started this Quest. There was also the Dursleys, he supposed. He hadn’t exactly told anyone the extent of his experiences with them… but that didn’t feel like  _ his own  _ secret. Rather, it was something the Dursleys had done  _ to _ him. So that, too, was not quite right. 

 

The slit widened into a cave as they walked. The walls were damp; Harry could hear the muted plopping sound of stray droplets falling from the stalactites. Or was it stalagmites? Harry could never remember. No, it was probably stalactites after all… 

 

A dim blue glow in the distance interrupted his speculations. They were nearing the Well. Harry looked at Draco. He was staring straight ahead, bows creased, eyes dark. Once again, Harry wondered what his secret would be. 

 

As the glow grew closer, the cave widened further, its roof sloping up until it was several meters above their heads: a proper cavern. The walls were even damper here, and covered in patches of what would have looked like moss if it weren’t bright purple. In the center of the cavern was a large hole: the source of the glow. It was unassuming, but it seemed to radiate magical energy. In silence, Harry and Draco took up positions on either side of it. It was just the right size for them to reach each other across it. Draco took out the pouch and, leaning forward, passed Harry a fistful of the first sacrifice. They nodded at each other, and began to move in tandem: naming the sacrifice, throwing it in, and then bringing out the next one and repeating the process. They spoke, simultaneously, in a whisper: 

 

_ Horklump. Grave flower. Lindwyrm skin. Afanc claw. Butterfly dragon scale. Hippogriff feather.  _

 

Then it was time for the final sacrifice. Harry looked at Draco and found that the other boy was already watching him, his eyes glowing in the relative darkness. He remained silent, and Harry heaved an internal sigh. Of course, Draco would make him go first. Typical Slytherin. 

 

Harry didn’t mind going first, if only he could think of a secret. 

 

“Er—my name is Harry Potter, and… er...” 

 

The silence in the cavern was oppressive as he racked his brain, coming up with nothing. Finally, at a loss, he looked back at Draco, ready to tell him to go first—and stopped. 

 

Draco was still watching him. He looked ghostly in the light of the Well, hauntingly beautiful. He was poised, and perhaps anyone else would not have noticed the nervous tremor in his fingers, the way his eyes flicked minutely left and right. 

 

And Harry realized, and it seemed so simple, so obvious, so amazingly easy that he spoke entirely without thought: 

 

“My name is Harry Potter, and I’m falling for Draco Malfoy.” 

 

Harry watched as Draco’s face changed, going from pale to bright pink as his eyes widened and his lips parted in surprise. It was funny and a little cute, and he felt himself smile. Then Draco’s eyes dropped, fingers weaving tightly together, and Harry’s stomach plummeted. 

 

_ Oh, Godric, what did I just say?!  _

 

He opened his mouth to apologize, to correct himself, to say something, anything that could fix this—

 

Before he could, Draco started speaking. Eyes still fixed on the Well, he began, “My name is Draco Malfoy, and...” He lifted his eyes to Harry’s, and his voice was the ghost of a whisper. “I fell for Harry Potter a long time ago.” 

 

Silence—no longer oppressive, but wide and dense. They gazed at each other across the Well, adjusting to this change, this new something between them. 

 

After a time, Harry began to smile, and then to laugh. Draco joined him, breaking the silence and filling the cavern with warmth as their laughter bounced off the walls. When they stopped, Harry felt light. He grinned widely at Draco, who was now frowning again. 

 

Looking around, and sounding rather cheated, he asked, “Did anything… actually happen?” 

 

Harry shrugged, and Draco’s expression shifted into a pout, as though he were annoyed at the anticlimax, but couldn’t quite find it in him to be upset at the moment. He moved around the Well, coming to join Harry, and Harry saw it. 

 

He cried, “Draco, look!” 

 

A thin red string ran between them, each end linked to their ring fingers. They lifted their hands in unison, examining it, and Harry smiled at Draco. 

 

“Changes your life, yeah?” 

 

Draco smiled back. 

 

They left the cave together, patting the stone dragon’s snout on their way. The sun was setting. They sat down together on the grass, watching the golden rays retreat behind the mountains. Draco leaned into Harry. 

 

Harry knew that this moment (and it was a wonderful moment) was only temporary. It couldn’t last, not with Voldemort out there. 

 

He knew that he had to go back and fight—maybe with Draco, maybe not. 

 

He knew that nothing would ever be the same, that everything was going to be darker, more difficult, from here on out. 

 

He knew that the Quest was over, that this time they’d had together of running free and having fun and laughing was done with, that the second they went down the mountain, the beginnings of the next wizarding war would come crashing down around them. 

 

But just now—just right now, sitting out in the endless silence, with Draco at his side and the whole world at their feet—everything felt okay. 

 

Everything was going to be okay.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's song is Stand By Me by Ben E King
> 
>  
> 
> MY DUMB ASS FORGOT TO POST THE CHAPTER AGAIN JFC— I literally spend all week waiting to post each new chapter and then I foRGET 
> 
> I can't believe this is the penultimate chapter... what am I gonna do once this is over?? I mean, aside from writing for other fandoms, trying to write my own novel, unburying myself from mounds of schoolwork... ha... 
> 
>  
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter!! I'll see you all (for the last time ;-;) next week, for the epilogue~~


	14. Veni Vidi Vici

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is the end ;—;

 

It’s mid-afternoon. 

 

Harry and Draco are sitting in Harry’s quarters at Hogwarts. It’s a small room, comfortable, with dilute brown walls—not at all to Draco’s tastes, as he is wont to mention. There is a Gryffindor banner up—Harry is Head of House, after all—and the bedsheets are deep red, but if you were to look closely, you might notice the little green and silver items snuck in as well—a silver vase, some green couch cushions, a little silvery snake that holds Harry’s glasses at night. 

 

Harry, seated in a crimson-cushioned rocking chair by the fire, has just finished grading a stack of surprisingly not terrible Defense essays. He has had quite enough of war in his life; all fantasies of becoming an Auror have long faded from his mind, and he doesn’t regret his decision to teach at all. After all, Hogwarts is his home.

 

Draco, luxuriating on the sofa by the window, is making origami foxes out of his many scrapped drafts of the study he’s been writing about his experiments with bundimun. He’s been studying the uses of bundimun since they graduated, and is just wrapping up his study and preparing to publish his findings in the world of Potions—that is, if only he could ever be satisfied with the quality of his writings. 

 

After a time, Harry sets the papers down and looks over at him. The red string still runs between their hands.

 

“Hey, Malfoy.” 

 

“Yes?” 

 

“Marry me?”

 

Draco stills momentarily, then completes the fold, sets the fox aside, and looks at Harry, and his smile is the definition of devilish. 

 

“Fuck it. Sure.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's song is Veni Vidi Vici, by Highland. 
> 
>  
> 
> IT'S OVER AHHHHH 
> 
> I started this project way back in July and I can't believe it's finally over... what now ;—; 
> 
>  
> 
> I'm actually trying to write my own novel, now — quest-style, like this one, except about twin brothers instead of a romance. It's quite fun, but it's hard work and it means that I'll probably be away from fan fiction for some time TT^TT
> 
>  
> 
> Anyway... THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING!! I really hope you've enjoyed this fic as much as I enjoyed writing it~~

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter's song is Airplanes by B.O.B
> 
>  
> 
> whooooo first Harry Potter fic what up
> 
> It's been 10 years since I first read HP, so I just had to do something to commemorate. Naturally, after rereading the series, my first thought was drarry
> 
>  
> 
> This prologue is terribly short, but the actual chapters are much longer, I promise. I've finished all of the research and planning (for once), and I've written a few chapters already, so I should be able to maintain a weekly uploading schedule. I have 14 chapters planned, all in all.
> 
> That's about all I've got to say... I'm enjoying writing this (I love writing Harry and Draco, they're both just brilliant) and I hope you enjoy reading it just as much!
> 
> Please do comment if you like it; your approval is my life sustenance :)


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